Of Professionists And Princes
by The Vampire Apple
Summary: What's this? Another Dark Brotherhood fiction? Yet again? Yessss. I'm writing this, but it's up to you to decide if it's funny, interesting, good or simply a complete failure. Dark Brotherhood? Daedra? Latin? J'Ghasta? Pancakes? All of this, and more...
1. Prologue

_Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a rewriting of a resurrected fic? _

_You bet it is. _

_I can't believe it has been four years, but, hopefully, I have now improved enough as a fledgling writer as to manage finishing this fic without embarassing myself._

_Godspeed! _

.: :.

.: Prologue :.

The Merchants' Inn, Market District, Imperial City

_So late at night – it is almost early in the morning_

The goblet bonked against the half-empty bottle and some of the liquid spilt over. Avidius dismissed the incident with barely a raised eyebrow, but he could not miss the horrified glance of the Altmer woman sitting at the table across him. _Paloneerya or something_, he thought. _Owns the fancy clothes shop down the street. Probably thinks I murdered the Ninedamned tablecloth._ Well, too bad for her, but she had to get used to it. The captain of the Imperial Watch's days at the Feed Bag with the rest of the peasant rubble were over. Thanks to the generous and uncontrived donations of her fellow merchants, Avidius had finally begun to enjoy a slice of the commodity he had always felt he deserved and there was nothing that Mer hag could do about it. That is, unless she wanted to find out just how deliciously bureaucratic he could get when it came to vendor licenses, building permits, hygiene regulations, tax evasions and the like.

Huh. Uriel Septim might be Emperor, but he, Audens, was damn well the High Top Hat or whassit of the Market District. And it was just damn _right_. After all those years of backbreaking labour in the Watch, always out, every night, come rain, hail or snow, catching petty criminals that were out in the street again before you could sneeze and don't forget just how annoying the superiors could get, them and their crazy obsessions – and here Avidius mentally recalled the voice of Hyeronimus Lex- "_We must catch the Grey Fox! He is a menace! He must be stopped!"_ or even worse, Phillida and his flirts with the Dark Brotherhood – _"If they're gunning for me, then I'm on the right track!"_. Crazy bastards. All he wanted what a snug, cozy spot of comfort away from trouble. He deserved it.

"Captain Avidius?"

"What?"

He turned to look at the nervous Elven waitress. She was snatching her battered uniform with her hands, creasing what was once a brightly embroidered coat of arms showing the initials of the Inn.

"There's someone waiting for you, sir- " She gulped. Avidius was puzzled. He wasn't expecting anybody. Maybe it was someone from the watchtower? Nah, Lex, the accursed fool, couldn't possibly be that discreet. The elf went on. "A woman, sir. She asks for you, sir. Says it's urgent, sir."

"Fine, whatever." He sighed and left the table, handing some coin to the waitress. A woman? Could it be that Breton wench who had tried to –haha- reason with him earlier on about his "business"? Priceless. She still wouldn't get it, would she?

He groaned on the stairs, mentally replaying their meeting. "_I want you to stop taking bribes!"_ she had chirped. What were the merchants thinking, sending someone with about the same subtlety of an Orc? They should have known better. He had even been gentle with her, because it was obvious she didn't have a clue. Avidius had asked her what she intended to do about the situation, since it was her word against his, and she was a nobody and he was an Imperial Captain, and he could no doubt find out something about her that could get her expelled from the City in a heartbeat. The woman had looked slightly puzzled, then, in what he assumed was her "intimidating voice", had told him that she could "_make bad things happen_." Right. Another crazy Breton thinking she's a magical miracle waiting to happen. As if. Avidius, then, had simply extended a gauntleted hand and calmly pushed her off the sidewalk. _Crazy bitch._

When he opened the door to his room, however, there was no one inside. Maybe she had come back to her senses and left. Good riddance.

Avidius stepped in, door closing behind him. Darkness reigned in the room, while a gentle breeze entered from the window. The moonlight bathed everything in a slight silvery cloak, which was very poetic and certainly did wonders with the décor. Pity he had never cared much for such things.

The breeze was gentle but also a good deal chill, in spite of the warm season. Didn't he leave the window closed? Oh well. He turned to the small nightstand. That was when he saw her.

"Wha-"

And that was the last thing he said.

.: :.

"The Black Horse Courier"'s backyard, Market District, Imperial City

_Early afternoon_

Itius Hayn risked a glance down the arched hallway that led to the Black Horse's stables yard. Yep. There she was. Breton, female, from early to late twenties, red hair, plain clothes, probably a farmless labourer from the south provinces, coming to try her luck in the big city. He couldn't see any green eyes, but he would made sure to check once they got closer.

"Is that the suspect, sir?" asked behind him the voice of Giovanni Civello, his subordinate. Itius nodded.

"Doesn't look like much to me, sir. I mean, for a killer."

"Criminals are a vicious and cowardly lot." Preached Itius, with the self-assuredness that comes from years of deep-rooted and genuine persuasion. "They seek to strike fear into the heart of good citizens. We must stop them at all costs."

"It's just that I heard in the barracks that Avidius was all over the place and well, he was kinda burly, what with being a guard " _– and a bit of a lardass_, Giovanni privately added –" while she looks about as strong as my sis."

"Huh-uh" muttered Itius, all taken in preliminary observation of the suspect.

"You've seen my sis, sir. And Avidius was a guard. My sis knows nothing about fighting a guard, sir, though don't let her come near you with that broom of hers 'cause-"

"Ah! But crime is devious, Civello." Said Itius, triumphant. "It hides behind an innocent façade to strike better at the heart of justice. When you're more experienced, you'll know this." He pointed at the girl. "Besides, suspect was seen by witnesses arguing with the victim not long before the deed was done."

"Sir, if I know Avidius half as much as I suspect I did, all witnesses saw was him checking her out."

"Ah! A crime of passion!"

Itius was positively beaming. Civello sighed.

"Let's go apprehend her, Civello."

"Yes, sir. Apprehending right now, sir."

This was bad, thought Giovanni. A guard had been killed, and that was always bad. In this particular case, it had been Avidius, and well, Giovanni was a good lad and he prayed to the Nines as much as the next man, but he couldn't help himself to be sorry for the lardass. Avidius did all that Giovanni thought a guard should never do, from the bribes to some less incriminating things like stealing the last muffins from the barrack's common larder, and surely somewhere in the Chant of the Nine there was something about that and Avidius right now was probably having a very stern talk with Pater Akatosh and Julianos Arbiter.

But Giovanni had become a guard out of what Itius called "searing love for justice" (and Avidius called "sheer stupidity") and he was sure his ma' wouldn't have liked him arresting girls.

Without a thoroughly sound investigation, of course.

Which hadn't _really_ happened, because A Guard Had Been Killed.

Which was more like "dismembered in minute fragments of which apparently several are missing", as the Watch medicae had written in his report.

Giovanni sighed. This was bad. They were now less than two or three feet away from the girl, who was sitting on a barrel, her back turned, eating some sort of rolled pancake.

And now the show's on, he thought.

"STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!" Itius bellowed. Giovanni flinched, as probably did everyone in a three mile radius. The girl, who by now would have probably been in need of some advanced reconstructive healing magic applied to her eardrums, turned around, staring at the duo with a pair of bewildered bright –

"Ah ha! Green eyes! It's her! What did I tell you, Civello? Suspect's eyes: green!"

"I know, sir." Said Giovanni. The girl was still munching a mouthful of lunch, he thought. This was going to be embarrassing, but there was no stopping Itius Hayn now.

"Helena Marie D'Eath, you are under arrest for the grievous murder of Audens Avidius, Captain of the Imperial Watch!"

The girl's, suspect's, D'Eath's jaw dropped.

"Wha-"

That was all she said before Itius grabbed her wrist and stood her up. Her rolled pastry dropped on the ground. Waste of good lunch, thought Giovanni.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the Breton let out the most ear-piercing, shrilling shriek that had ever been heard from either Man or Mer, taking even Itius's rock-solid adherence to procedures slightly aback. He blinked.

The three Khajiits that ran the Courier peeked from a small window, all puzzled bright yellow eyes and questioning tails. Several others passerbys had stopped and were now looking at the two guards with the mixture of worry, concern and fear that every cop learnt to be wary of. Giovanni started sweating slightly in his armour. The girl had gotten herself an audience: so much for a quiet arrest.

"What do we do, sir?" he whispered to Itius. Before his superior could answer him, the girl had refilled her portentous lungs with air and let out another scream.

"_Murder! Kidnapping! Help!" _

Itius was positively shocked. No one had ever resisted being arrested from him. Well, _of course_ they did, but usually they did it _by the rules_, and there were flights, brawls, knives, chases and the like.

"Look, madam, you don't understand-" he started.

"It's just for questioning, madam, please." Intervened Giovanni, quickly. "We're the City Watch. It's all perfectly legal, but you have got to come with us and-"

"_Abuse of power! My rights have been violated!" _

"It's just that there has been a killing, you must have heard, Audens Avidius, and-"

"_Framing! They're trying to frame me! Help!"_

Giovanni looked around. There was a small crowd forming at the entrance, because this was as good a piece of street theatre as any. What was worse, they were right in the Courier's backyard, and the six most curious eyes of the entire Empire were staring right at them.

"We're not trying anything, madam, we just need your co-operation with a matter-"

"_Avidius framed me! I knew he would!" _

The young guard stopped. This was a Clue, or he wasn't a guard.

Itius interrupted. "But he's dead! This is ridiculous! "

Now it was the Breton's time to be taken aback. There was a moment's pause, but then…

"_He would stop at nothing! He told me he would!" _

Giovanni took a deep breath. It was time to apply one of the Guard Academy lessons and try to do some damage control. Maybe back at the Watch house he could have squeezed out more Clues from this D'Eath. There was obviously a lot more on this case than it seemed, and he was set out on being the best guard and do what truly awesome guards did, which was Solve Crimes, Serve and Protect.

Itius nodded at him, and together they grabbed an arm each. They were both tall men wearing heavy armour, so there wasn't much D'Eath could do besides wriggling like a mudcrab and screaming.

When the shouts grew fainter and fainter, then disappeared, and the crowd slowly disassembled and went about its own business, the six yellow eyes all looked at each other in mute questioning. (In pairs, that is.)

"We need new courier." Said Ra'jiraadh.

"She is good courier." Said Urjabhi.

"She is prisoner now, not courier." Said Hassiri.

"Maybe we get back prisoner and make her courier again?" asked Urjabhi.

"Getting prisoners is troublesome." Said Ra'jiraadh.

"Getting couriers is not troublesome." Said Hassiri.

"She was good courier." Said Urjabhi.

"She was not." Said Ra'jiraadh.

"Letters had teethmarks on them." explained Hassiri.

"Clients complained." Said Ra'jiraadh.

"But letters arrived!" said Urjabhi.

There was a moment of careful thinking, where the eyes weighed a good courier against bail and teethmarks.

"We need new courier." Said, finally, Urjabhi.

The others nodded.

"But maybe we make story about prisoner?" proposed Urjabhi.

The others exchanged a glance.

"Maybe someone else gets prisoner back and we have courier again!" concluded Urjabhi.

"Maybe we make."

They scurried off.

.: :.

Leyawiin outskirts, Cyrodill

_Dead of night_

So close, he was so close.

The wound hurt like hell, and if Blanchard was right, the blurring in his vision wasn't caused by blood loss only. That bastard must have used some kind of poison- good for him. But if he could get to the Speaker in time, the Speaker knew alchemy…

Ah, there. The outline ….of the fort? He was nearly there….

Got to be fast, though, head's spinning…

Blanchard urged the horse.

.: :.

Ta dan!

/VA


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1, in which players meet_

.: :.

A basement, Elven Gardens district, Imperial City 

"Well?" said an impatient voice.

The small company assembled in the cellar-turned-meeting-room shifted uneasily in their jet black robes. This was not good.

"He's late." said the owner of the voice, drumming his fingers on the gaming table in an annoying way. "And these robes are suffocating, I can't wait to pull them off. Could someone be kind enough to remind me why do we wear them again…?"

"And why do we have to meet here? It's damp. And stuffy. I think I saw a rat, back there." someone else added.

The robed figure next to him was thankful to be almost completely shrouded in darkness, or else everyone might have seen the extremely pissed off way his eyes darted to the ceiling. "No need to ask, because you perfectly know why. It's customary. You can't play with the fates of Men and Mer wearing just your favorite slippers in your favorite couch-"

"Why not? I do that all the time!" intervened a voice from the far left.

"I know, dear." Purred another – a female- near him.

The annoyed guy shot them another dark look. "It's not…dignified, gentlemen. We have standards of excellence, if I may say, that we must adhere to. We are not, after all, mere Daedra…"

Everyone else in the room braced themselves. Here we go again, said five hopeless faces.

"… Cavorting in the forests, half naked, caked with gore and grime…"

"Those were good times." muttered the voice from the far left.

"We are, indeed, Aedra, superior spirits tasked by the great Anu to rule his creation…"

The female coughed discreetly.

"…But anyway." said the pissed off voice. "It's in the rules. Robes of the deep color of primordial night, dark underground recesses of mystery untold. Unwritten rules, but rules nevertheless." And I won't let rules be disrespected, said his look. "Besides, this was all I could find in such short… notice."

"Alright. Alright." replied the impatient voice. "I think we can all agree we're in front of a breach of regulations, though." He tried his best to hide the sneaky gloating in his voice. "He received the invitation, with date, place and everything. All regular. He even RSVP'd!" Everyone nodded along. "But he's not here. And I am. So, can we wrap this up quickly, or-"

"Everything right, dears?" chirped an elderly female voice from the door leading above. There was much startling and recomposing in the crew. Collars were unpopped, bodices tightened, hair brushed back and someone even cleaned behind his ears at the last second. A cold chill swept in from the cracked darkness.

"Yes, Mrs. Maccarius!" they all sang in chorus.

"Do you want pancakes? I can make you pancakes." she went on. Her voice sounded like cats, handknit sweaters, moist handkerchiefs patting on cheeks and steely discipline.

"No, Mrs. Maccarius!"

"I'm going to the Temple now, be back in no time! And don't be naughty!"

"Of course, Mrs. Maccarius!"

The door slid back in place. There was a moment of widespread relief. But that, of course, was only after everyone listened intently to the distant sound of the main door closing.

"Very well." breathed again the impatient voice. "I think we all agree Akatosh concedes defeat by being absent at the match. Julianos, would make this official…?"

"Not so fast, Ar-cakes." cooed the female voice. Her tone was as sweet as the sound of fresh flower petals, but decisive nevertheless. "There's still time for a champion to arrive and represent him."

"Do not call m- wait, are you serious? Are you serious? By me, you're _serious_!" cried Arkay.

"It's in the rules, right, Jul?" purred Dibella.

Julianos, god of Justice, Law, Mathematics, Language, Literature (1) and Unbending Rules, scratched his chin. "Well, of course. A champion. It is really quite customary. The precedents in the epics are countless…"

"See?" smiled Dibella. "There's still hope. There's always hope."

Arkay snorted. "There's no one here, unless one of you guys…"

"… And so, I ask unto you who are herein gathered." concluded Julianos, in his usual pompous manner. "Is here a Champion to rise and meet the challenge in Akatosh's stead?" he bellowed.

"_I am here_." said a voice.

Everyone felt silent for a second. Eyes agape looked at each other in the darkness and why yes, suddenly there was an extra pair in the room.

"Dib?" said Tiber Septim. "Was that you?"

"No." answered Dibella.

"Stendarr?"

"Nope."

"Zenithar?"

"What? I'm checking my tax notes."

"Mara and Kynareth?"

"They're not here. You know Kyn, can't stand small spaces, and I haven't been able to reach Mara at her usual place." said the Goddess of Beauty.

"Then who on Nirn…"

"You! How did you get in?" Arkay's finger pointed squarely at a new, hooded figure. There was a great rattling of stools on the floor as everyone tried to put as much distance as possible between them and the newcomer. "You don't belong here! The invitation was strictly 'No Daedra'!"

"I am not a Daedra." said the new voice, calmly. There was a certain amused edge that sent shivers down mortals' spines – and a few gods, too.

"Yeah, right." Arkay rolled his eyes. "Why didn't I get a memo, then? Are we the Ten Divines now? Did we went up a notch, _again_?" Tiber Septim grunted and shifted in his seat. He didn't like this nudge at his acquired godhood.

Julianos was looking pensive. "Strictly theoretically speaking, she _is_ right…"

"I am a goddess." said the new voice. "I have a temple. I have followers. I have prayers, which I grant."

Arkay hit the table with his fist. "For _coin_! That is unheard of!"

Julianos gave a polite cough while the other gods looked around uneasily. This was a touchy subject. "Actually, you see, all of the donations we receive…"

"It doesn't matter." snarled Arkay. "She's not a goddess, she's… she's an _entrepreneuse_!"

"And all of the people in Cyrodill, whether they like it or not." went on the voice. " Believe in me. They _know_ I exist."

There was another thoughtful pause. This was not something any god could afford to say.

"I don't think Akatosh would be happy with this." said Tiber.

"Well, we don't have other choices." said Julianos. "Unless you, Talos, wish to step in. It would be appropriate, given what is at stake here."

"Oh, no." whined Dibella. "We all know how that ends. In a fistfight. Every. Single. Time."

"'s not my fault." grumbled Tiber Septim.

"And every time Dib plays we end up playing 'Star-crossed Lovers'." smirked Stendarr. "Every. Single. Time."

"What's wrong with that?"

"So." announced Julianos. "I declare the challenge accepted. The match for Cyrodill's fate between Arkay and…?"

"The Lady Luck." said the Lady Luck.

"… The Lady Luck is opened."

There was much rejoicing. Procedures had been respected. Things went on as normal. This pleased the Gods, who were, by all accounts, rather boring and unimaginative people. (2)

"Before we start." said Arkay, who had been sulking in his corner. "I wish to know my opponent's motivation to play."

Everyone nodded. It was in his rights and besides, the Gods liked good gossip as much as anyone else.

"My motivation," said the Lady, "is business."

"Well." commented Zenithar, God of Trade. "That, I surely can approve."

Arkay shook his head. "Who's starting?" Julianos pointed to the Lady. "See? Your turn. Make your move."

The Lady smiled. "Oh, I already did."

.: :.

* * *

Fort Farragut, Cheydinhal Outskirts, Cyrodill 

To the casual observer, Fort Farragut was nothing more than a damp, chilly and dangerous old ruin full of rats, ghosts, dart traps and other assorted dangers. This was the reason why everyone generally avoided the Fort like a bad cold and was also one of the reasons his owner liked it so much.

The other was that the Fort gave off a certain atmosphere that was perfectly suited for the distinguished rogue assassin: the ensemble of ancient spider webs, old skeletons still clutching the swords that ran through their ribcages, tattered tapestries and of course, the odd Dark Guardian here and there set a fantastic scenery for a Speaker of the Black Hand, one of the highest members of the terrific Dark Brotherhood.

That night, however, the hallowed halls echoed not with the usual dragging about of reanimated skeletons (or the related screams of hapless adventurers), but with roaring laughter. Lucien Lachance had a guest.

"-And then, and then you said, 'Gentlemen, this is an officially sanctioned Dark Brotherhood assassination. Please remain seated'!" roared J'Ghasta, Speaker of the Bruma Sanctuary and Lachance's long-standing friend, associate and occasionally job partner.

"They just kind of looked at me, like, 'You're serious?', and then you dropped from the chandelier right on the Potentate's favorite centerpiece!" Lucien cried with laughter, recalling the priceless look on the lord's face as his precious crystal reproduction of the Assumption of Saint Alessia smashed under J'Ghasta's dramatic entrance.

"And then we killed everyone!"

They both gave in to hilarity. There was a great deal of punches slamming on the table, tears and near asphyxiation, until Lucien finally regained his senses and straightened up, wiping his eyes.

While the Dark Brotherhood liked to carefully cultivate a sophisticated air of secrecy, danger and furtiveness around themselves (and while undoubtedly true, all matters considered), it was for the most part an elaborate game of smoke and mirrors. For example, who would suspect the most infamous guild of assassins in all of Tamriel (3) to simply write things on mundane pieces of paper without some sort of deviously convoluted cryptographic system?

There was no super-secret Dark Brotherhood code. Anyone finding a note saying something mysterious and apparently meaningless such as "Do you like to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?", "Who will help the poor widow's son?" or "These are not the notes you are looking for" will surely set about to find out more about it. (That was also why the long hours spent by Adamus Phillida carefully examining newspapers, torn pages, patterns in corn fields and grocery notes were pointless, except for the satisfied smirk they brought to the Black Hand members when they thought about it.)

J'Ghasta took two neatly folded squares of paper from his saddlebag and handed one to Lucien. His bright yellow eyes quickly scanned the information and memorized it.

"Mine is a contract, in fact, a rather boring one." He sighed, reaching for the candle to burn his now useless –and potentially harmful-note. "How's your-"

As he raised his gaze to look at his friend, the Khajiit's eyes widened. Lucien had the expression of someone who had just won the Imperial Lottery on his birthday.

He was positively gloating. Sporting a grin that would have put a werecat to shame, he tossed the small parchment to the other Speaker, while leaning back against his chair with his arms crossed behind his head.

J'Ghasta had to read the words three or four times before they finally sunk in. "H.M. D'Eath? _D'Eath_? As in-

"- Jacques D'Eath? Why, indeed." beamed Lucien.

"But, but…" J'Ghasta was at loss for words. His brain was racing with the possible implications and his tongue couldn't keep up. "Do you think this H.M. is actually _his_ kid?"

"It's not that common a name, don't you think?" explained Lucien. "Besides, like father…"

"…Yeah, yeah." J'Ghasta eyed the small crawly letters, which, on their account, made their best to outstare him.

D'Eath… Hadn't he read that somewhere before?

"Hey, Lucien, I've got something on the tip of my tongue…"

"Hairball?"

"By Sithis, you're _such_ a charmer." sighed heavily J'Ghasta, while Lucien allowed himself some snickering.

.: :.

* * *

_27th of Last Seed, 3E 433_

Emperor's Quarters, White Gold Tower, Imperial City

Emperor Uriel Septim, seventh of his name, startled awake.

For a time, he had sensed an unrest in his heart, something that was amiss. Not since the days when the treacherous Jagar Tharn had enclosed him into an inter-dimensional prison, ruling in his place with the aid of illusions and magic, he had felt such a disturbance. He was an old man, now, and knew all too well that whatever danger lurked ahead, it was not his to face. His sons would have to take the crown and rule over Tamriel- his days were numbered. He should have enjoyed a well-deserved rest. Geldall was going to be a good Emperor.

But still, this unrest. Sleep brings counsel, he had thought the night before, and it sure had in his case. The Nine Divines had answered his questions in a dream.

Such pity that the answers were so harsh to swallow.

.: :.

* * *

Cell #678, Imperial Prison, Imperial City

The last bit of crumbled mortar fell under the might of Helena's spoon. Ah _ha_! She mentally cheered. The time of reckoning had come!

From the opposing cell, Valen Dreth, the only other tenant of the fine Imperial City Prison, sneered loudly. "Don't tell me you actually expect to escape!"

"Hush!" replied the young Breton, too caught up in her work to come up with something more vibrant.

It hadn't took long, after being thrown into that cell, for her sensitive ears to pick up the exact place in the wall where the foundations went "bonk!" instead of "thump!".

Meaning that there was an empty spot behind the wall.

Meaning that she could, probably, wiggle her way out of prison.

Since the discovery, she has spent every waking moment carefully pricking at the mortar around one particularly big stone block. The Prison was an old and damp, and never underwent any upkeep of sorts, so the stonework wasn't particularly well-kept. The jailer seldom bothered to check in on them, except for the odd bowlful of suspicious-looking soup, so she had had fair game using her spoon as a tool, stuffing the crumbled mortar in her mattress and patiently, attentively, intently preparing her escape.

"Hey, Dreth?" she called. Her voice betrayed her excitement. "How long do you think I've been here? I kind of lost count of the days."

"Huh, a week, or so." answered the Dunmer's bored voice. "It's nothing! I've been here-"

Helena drowned out the umpteenth accounting of Valen Dreth's Eleven Years in Prison. She patted her hands on her worn prison shirt to get rid of the dust. If already a week had passed, she had precious little time to get to the audition. She had to be quick!

"Well." Helena sighed and collected all of her –so depressingly average- strength. "Here goes nothing."

She clutched the big iron ring embedded in her chosen stone block, planted her feet on both sides of it against the wall, and _pulled_.

"You're turning a lovely shade of purple, Ripper." Dreth casually commented, looking at his nails. "I expect your head will pop off any moment now."

"Nnngh… shut… up…"

Suddenly, her hands lost grip and she fell butt-first on the pavement, panting heavily. Dreth's laugh echoed in the empty cells.

"I swear by the Almsivi, Ripper, you're the best entertainment I've seen since…ever!"

The Breton was too busy massaging her aching shoulders to reply, but shot him a dark look nevertheless. Then she got up and approached the wall again, placing her hands firmly on the iron ring.

"Oh, sweet mother Azura!" cackled Dreth. "Why do you even bother? You're going to die here, Ripper!"

"Not…before …my….audition…"

"You're turning purple again." commented the Dunmer. "Ah, Ripper. How will I miss you when you will get executed…"

"Not…going….to…"

"Hey!" Dreth's index finger went up and his eyes darted towards the door. "Someone's coming! Cut it out, Ripper!"

Helena let go and took a breath. Yep. She could hear them now, over the screams of agony of her tendons: footsteps coming down the stairs. Please, don't let it be that overzealous guard, Crivello or Civello or something, she prayed.

"-this way! Quick!"

"My sons? Are they safe?"

"We don't –"

Her brow furrowed at the muffled, unknown voices. However, whatever line of questioning she might have tried to pursue in her head was cut short when the metallic door was thrown open. An armored woman scrutinized the small hallway, pausing but a moment to give Dreth and Helena a disgusted look.

"All clear! Come in!"

Two other guards with her expensive-looking uniform made their entrance, each at the side of an old man wearing an extremely decorated and embroidered set of robes…

"By Almalexia's tits, Ripper! It's the Emperor!" yelled Dreth, to whom 'finesse' was probably the name of an exotic Khajiiti dish.

The guards – she recognized them now: Blades, the crème of the crème, the handpicked bodyguards of the Septims – were now looking at her with the sort of face one reserves to something that unexpectedly stuck to their boot.

"Stand back, prisoner! This does not concern you!" exclaimed the woman. She fumbled a precious three seconds with a heavy key ring and then opened the door to her cell.

"Hey!" shouted Dreth in indignation, but no one paid any attention to him.

"She's not supposed to be here!" said one of the guards, a Redguard. "What are those idiots upstairs thinking? They _know_ this cell is off-limits!"

"It doesn't matter now, Baurus." replied the woman. "You! Stand back! Under the window! Don't move!"

As Helena obeyed the barked out orders, the little group of intruders stepped in. Immediately, the woman rushed to have a look at the wall upon which the Breton had spent countless hours of careful work.

"What happened to the mortar, here? It's all scratched!"

While the prisoner did her best to assume an unsuspicious look, the Redguard rolled his eyes Aetheriusward.

"Who cares, Renault! Get it open!"

Renault bumped a series of brick here and there with her armored fist– and sure enough, the whole arched section of the wall slid off and disappeared underground like rabbits tended to do when in the presence of hats. (3)

Helena was appalled.

"Please, Your Majesty, we must be quick!" pleaded Renault. The Redguard and the other swiftly closed the Emperor's rear flank, ready for an attack.

But His Awesome and Terrible Majesty Uriel Septim, seventh of his name, silenced them with a gesture. He was staring intently at the Breton prisoner, who, on her part, gaped at the passage in the wall with only a slight twitching of her left eye.

" You!"

Oh, snap, she thought. When people began with "You!" or other variations- such as "It's her!" , "You, there!" or "Get her!" – it was never, ever a good thing.

But the Emperor's voice dribbled with relief. "Thank the Nines, I have found you. My Champion."

Since nothing in her life had prepared her to a conversation with the person that ruled over the entire continent and was said to be the living descendant of a god (or two), Helena's brain frantically searched for something to say under the directory labeled "Conversations with nigh-omnipotent beings", found it empty, borked and resorted to monosyllables.

"Hah." She said, and immediately a little voice in her head squatted its metaphorical little palm on its metaphorical little forehead and said _There, you lost your chance at history_.

Thankfully, the Emperor was already impressed enough by her as to not require any further encouragement.

"You often inhabited my dreams, a comforting presence." went on Uriel Septim, Dragonborn and Emperor of Man and Mer, smiling warmly at her. "Even in the face of Oblivion, hope springs eternal."

"Your Highness, please!" begged Renault. "We have no time!"

Uriel Septim sighed, a tired, resigned sigh. "Of course. Forgive an old man's ramblings, Captain." He turned away and faced the newly opened secret passage. "Never build a dungeon you can't escape from, eh, Baurus, old friend?" he said cheerfully to the Redguard Blade.

"Quite so, your Majesty." babbled Baurus, getting quite rosy pink under his helmet. He helped the Emperor to step in the steep tunnel, and then they left. But before disappearing, Helena clearly saw Uriel turning to _wink_ at her.

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was their distancing footsteps, the dripping from one of the other cells' ceilings and the moss growing on the stones. If the whole Tribunal had suddenly burst in wearing traditional Bosmer costumes, singing "A Rude Song" and dancing the conga, neither Dreth nor Helena would have bat an eyelash.

"By the ears of my ancestors, Ripper!" whimpered Dreth, while his hands darted up into his scarce white hair. "You lucky bastard!"

Helena took a few steps back from the hole, smirking. "Adieu!"

"Wait, Ripper! Look!" started Dreth, hysterically. "I'm sorry for everything I said! I'm sorry for not believing you! I'm sorry for calling you a stuck up harlot with cheap parlor tricks! Help old Valen out, come on! No, wait, don't jump in there! Don't jump in _thereeeee_!"

.: :.

* * *

The "King and Queen" Tavern, Talos Plaza, Imperial City

"-your change, and your copy of the Courier, sir" smiled the waitress. Her client smiled back, a warm little grin that made her knees melt. By Dibella, wasn't he dreamy…

Lucien smirked to himself while the girl scurried off. It was always nice to check that he wasn't losing his touch.

Bringing the mug of hot Elsweyrian café to his lips, he reconsidered his plans for the day. It was still fairly early in the morning – at least, it was for someone whose line of work often forced him to adopt a nocturnal lifestyle- and he had reached the Imperial City on time, leaving himself a comfortable period of time to enjoy the sights and track down D'Eath's trail until nightfall, when he would make his move.

Absent-mindedly, he started flipping the Courier's pages. The paper received direct funding from the Elder Council, and yet it still sported things like "Tamriel's First Free Newspaper! Nothing gets past us!" on its first page. By Sithis, were those one, three… a grand total of _ten_ exclamation marks in the same line? Those Khajiits were obviously deranged.

Still, while you couldn't probably trust the Courier to let you know about the murky maneuvers of the Council politic scene (after all, no one bites the hand that feeds, or in this case, the hand with the heavy gold pouch…), nine times out of ten you could still get a good laugh out of the rest of the articles. The three Khajiits brothers who made up the paper's whole staff, newsroom, reporters, printmakers and coffee specialists were (in)famous through all of the province for their daring disregard of the most common rules of punctuation, publishing, sanity and common sense.

He had reached the half of his mug and the sport section ("Outrageous! Mudcrab hunting season opened, animal right activists protest!) before his eyes caught something that made him snort his café all over the page.

They were just a few lines in the "Crime and punishment!" section, which usually contained small saucy bits of gruesome information about the various happenings of the Imperial Watch and the Prison.

It read:

**Execution tomorrow!**

_Last night on this plane of existence for H.M.D'Eath, also known as the Ripper, who two weeks ago deviously hacked into the room of upstanding guard-citizen and neatly disassembled him into little pieces left all over the room like the toy of a particularly naughty child! The Ripper has been stationed in the Imperial Prison and will tomorrow at 10.00 be hanged by the neck until dead! The whole citizenship is invited to come jeer at the grievous criminal and don't forget to buy a string of the actual rope for a memento! Here is what the good people of the City have to say about this case:_

"_It's the will of the Nines" says , writer-citizen!_

"_I'm not completely convinced about this" says , Commander of the Imperial Guard! _

"_Good courier is lost!" says Urjabhi, journalist-citizen! _

Lucien's jaw dropped to Oblivion and he had to re-read the article three times before he could get it to make sense. When he did, he felt like he was in kindergarten again and completely appalled by the fact that the cubic block just wouldn't fit into the triangle hole. He hung to the blocks that still made sense and tried to build something from there.

D'Eath had committed a murder and had been deemed worthy by the Night Mother, so he would have to be recruited. Lucien was to appear to him and welcome him into the Brotherhood. Up to this, it was fine.

But apparently, the fool had been caught, and this was both idiotic on his part and completely unheard of from Lucien's, because part of the selection for prospective recruits included the possession of the considerably prized skills of "not-getting-caught" and "getting away with it", both vital in the business and something the Night Mother actively looked out for.

So why in Nirn was D'Eath on the list? And most importantly, why was he on _Lucien's_ list? The assassin hadn't the slightest wish to get tangled into something as risky and complicated like a breakout from Adamus Phillida's personal stronghold. Couldn't someone else handle this, for Sithis's sake? No?

Ah, but Lucien could just picture in his mind the smile on Ungolim's slimy little face as he wrote the assignment. That little sneaky green dwarf. It was just like that time with Antoinette, wasn't it?

Lucien shuddered at the memory. Antoinette Marie had poisoned her aunt with a garlic omelet, and then went into hiding in the deepest, muddiest, dirtiest and farthest corner of the City sewers she could find. And who did the Listener judge the most apt to the job of all his Speakers? _Why, let's send Lachance! _

He still didn't know what had been worse: the very journey to the place – fording rivers of human waste and sewage, with rats the size of his leg who tried to actually _eat_ his legs - or the complete adoration that dawned on the Breton's face when she saw him, which had then persisted and indeed, was still vibrant even nowadays…

Lucien still saw the glint in those eyes. In his nightmares.

He gave something halfway through a sigh and a snarl, stuffed the Courier into his bag and left the Tavern with a scowl that could have murdered puppies.

.: :.

* * *

Somewhere underground, Imperial City

The various worms, spiders, rats, bats, goblins, zombies and the rest of the assorted predators who dwelt in the warm, moist darkness below the foundations of the Imperial Prison led a quiet, uneventful life. When prey arrived in their home (and it seldom, if ever, happened!) it was usually considered good manners for it not to make the whole "food chain" procedure too difficult.

Common opinion on the harsh living conditions in the tunnels was that they didn't bred for particularly smart species: the favored traits tended more to encompass things like an extra fang or claw, or night vision, or the ability to gather moisture from the very air.

In this case, common opinion was completely wrong. It would have baffled any Mages' Guild scholar, but the combination of hard living and residual magic from the White Tower had produced some among the most intelligent glow-worms in Tamriel.

So, when two of them were interrupted in their morning crawling schedule by the frantic footsteps of the Breton girl, their conversation went as follows:

"Blimey! Did you see that? She could have stepped on us, squashed us all right!"

"That's prey for you, nowadays. Back in my time,, " which was, approximately, six hours ago, because glow-worms live short and sweet, " it wasn't like this. It was more …lying around decomposing, without this senseless haste."

Little did the worms know that Helena's hurry was far from senseless. In fact, it was supported by a complex survival philosophy which could be summarized in: if danger lies behind you, run. Should danger lie ahead, then the best possible course of action is to rush forward, _outrun_ it and keep going until Safety is reached.

(Most philosophers agree, though, that Safety is a utopia and can, therefore, never be attained.)

Helena was good at running. She had practiced a lot: her mother had insisted she learnt it along another set of essential skills, such as swimming (with or without cumbersome clothing) and the fine art of untying knots (with hands, feet or teeth). Stumbling was no problem, it just meant you were moving faster in the right direction.

Directions were easy, too. Places like this one got very little air currents at all, and to an expert nose like hers, the slightest whiff of fresh air stood up against the background like an Orc in a Dwemer shop.

Hah!

The carved-out rock tunnel suddenly flew out into a constructed hall again. It was comfortingly empty. Helena breathed out relief, dropped in and sat heavily on what looked like an ancient piece of carved marble. One moment's rest…

"I see you have made it. Good." said a cheerful elderly voice.

"Wha?" Helena looked from behind sweaty fingers and saw the smiling face of the Emperor. If that hadn't been worrying enough, the smell of blood filled her nostrils- and distant clashes of steel came from down a small passageway. Oh, _snap_-

"I am afraid these are my last minutes. I apologize for the distress, but such things rarely go as smoothly as we would wish to." went on Uriel Septim, with the same disturbing peacefulness. "But thankfully, you are here. We can proceed."

Helena glanced at the passage. There was nothing to be seen, but the air carried the sound of orders and cries of pain. The Blades were probably out there doing their job.

It looked like a last stand, and last stands were highly unsanitary.

The Emperor was fumbling with something around his neck.

An annoying little voice in her head spoke. _You can't leave the Emperor here. You just can't. It would be… well, it would be _wrong_. He's the Emperor. You're supposed to lay down your life for him, as a citizen, I think it's in the Imperial Codex … _

_You made this up! You're making this up! _thought Helena.

_No_, replied her conscience. _It's in here somewhere, let me check…_

.: :.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunders were brewing. Dark things rattled in their underground nests. Birds fell from the sky. Milk curdled. Omens called in sick. Books dropped from their shelves and opened on relevant passages. All across Tamriel, the tea in witches' and fortune-teller's cups coagulated into nefarious shapes. Mad scholars and necromancers rubbed their hands together in delight while their hunchbacked assistants swept the floor of the secret laboratory.

No one paid much attention to the distant sound of rolling dice.

.: :.

* * *

Inner Sewers, Imperial City.

The fact about the Imperial City was that, since it had been built over a pre-existent Ayleid religious complex, it had sort of sprawled over the centuries on a very intricate bundle of tunnels, forgotten chambers, bottomless wells and dead-ends. As a considerably worrying (at least, for the city defenses) side effect, this meant that there were dozens of covert ways in and out of the City. As a rather more disgusting one, it meant that most of these escape routes went straight through the City's majestic sewers. As a far more hilarious consequence, it meant that the Septim and the Dark Brotherhood used, unbestknowst to each other, the same 'secret passage'.

Lucien Lachance would probably have found this information somewhat ironic, but not in his current situation. Truly, as he waded uneasily over yet another murky drain, his mood was almost as black as the titular robes he had left packed onto Shadowmere's saddle – no reason ruining a perfectly good pair of robes.

"Ack!" exclaimed the Speaker, when a curious mudcrab tentatively pinched the back of his left boot. He kicked it back into the water, massaged the offended foot and immediately regretted it, after having observed the thick, best-left-unidentified smudge which now covered his hand… Wiping it on the wall, Lucien cursed Ungolim and all his female progenitors for assigning him this mission, then his own ancestors for never keeping his mouth shut - a trait which he suspected was at the root of many of his current problems - and then the Nine Divines for making this a stormy night, which meant that the Sewers were on high tide…

Thankfully, he was now nearing the section of the tunnels which intersected with the proper, ancient Ayleid section of the dungeons. There, at least, the air would have been less fragrant.

Lucien opened a small wooden door with barely a squeak. A whiff of stale, cold air rode forward, together with the old, undisturbed darkness of the path and …

….the sound of racing footsteps?

Lucien raised an eyebrow. He flattened his back on the left side of the door, listened carefully to the noise closing in and three, two, one...extended his right arm.

"Argh!"

A girl did a spectacular tumble and landed back-first on the dirty floor, gasping and clutching her nose.

"Ow!"

"I'm sorry, milady, I thought you were someone else." said Lachance, helping her up. "May I ask what business brings you here this evening?" he asked. You could say whatever you want about Lucien Lachance (4), but not that he didn't relish his 'public image', so to speak, even when conversing with deranged beggars in hysterics.

The girl brushed some strands of dirty hair out of her face. "What?" She looked at him like he had suddenly sprouted a second head. "Are you dense or something? What do you think I'm doing, you Nirn-damned idiot?" She held up two skinny wrists linked together by a loose string of chain. "What do these look like?"

A horrific realization started to resurface at the bottom of Lucien's brain. He tried to push it back down, but it floated up stubbornly.

"You're breaking out."

The girl didn't hear him. She pointed a finger at him with such force that Lucien barely managed not to back off – it would have looked very unprofessional, especially to a new recruit.

"That's right, you idiot!" she shrieked. "I'm a dangerous escaped criminal!" Here she seemed to pause midsentence to ponder something, but then she added: "I'm the Ripper, that's who!"

_Oh, Sweet Mother_."Aren't you", Lucien said grimly. He didn't plan it to go like this, at all. He had prepared the usual grand speech about the Brotherhood, which usually had the effect of both snare the recruits and give them a good scare (and entertain him endlessly). He had resolved to settle for a stern lecture on "Murder: How Not To Do It" after reading the Courier that morning. But this… this was worse than everything he had dared imagine. The Night Mother might have wanted this crazy kook into the family, yes, but Lucien wasn't going to make it easy for her, oh no.

"That's right! Who on Nirn do you think you are?" replied the girl, still pointing. Now that Lucien got a closer look at her, he realized that he had set off an entire womanful of adrenaline-fueled anger. Well, he would give her a cold shower, wouldn't he?

Lucien crossed his arms over his chest. He had a good head of height over the girl. In what J'Ghasta called his 'business-voice', he said, softly:

"I am an Assassin of the Dark Brotherhood."

_Oh, Sithis, the look on her face!_ Thought Lucien, savoring it and making no effort to hide the grin on his mouth_. I love my job._ His triumph, however, was short-lived.

Helena dropped her arm, gulping a few times. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, she leaned in a bit and whispered:

"… Are you too here to kill the Emperor?"

.: :.

* * *

Later that night, a dark figure skulked around the walls of the Prison. It stopped at times, sniffing the air, snarling and drooling. It went down the slope, sniffed around the beach, followed the shore for a while in a frenzy of fleeing mudcrabs. Then it howled, and sprung running.

.: :.

* * *

(1)And a lot of other things everyone – but not him! – tended to forget, among which Contradiction and Arguments.

(2)A lot like most of their followers. Like the ancient philoposopher Xen Phanes of Artaeum said: "If the mudcrabs had gods, they would look a lot lik-". Chronicles say that at this point, he was struck by lightning.

(3)A well-known, if mysterious, magical phenomenon.

(4)For most people, this went along the lines of "He's the most arrogant smug bastard I've ever met, and you can tell him I said that, too- _Wait, I was just joking!"_


	3. Chapter 2

You know guys, I really wanted to wait for my beta to check back with the edited version, but the thing is: she's very busy with all these Middle East riots going on (I have betas in very _high_ places XD) and I've had this chapter sitting here for so long and I feel like a jerk for leaving you hanging _and _every new +followstory _tears at the fabric of my soul _so here it is. I'll post the beta'd version when Gheddafi finally kicks it.

* * *

_Chapter two, in which pawns meet  
_

_Sssh! She's waking up! Gogron – put that down! _

Helena turned and tossed under the warm woolen blanket. Her forehead crinkled and her eyes squeezed, trying to drown out the intrusive whispering from the waking world. But alas, sleep was now lost; she could just as well wake up and start the day. _Wonder if Urjabhi has any letters for me today?_

A cold, merciless feeling sank into her nerves as the recent events made their way into her head as a particularly annoying relative at a family reunion. The prison, Valen, the Emperor – the Emperor! -, the Dark Brotherhood…

_The Dark Brotherhood?_

_All right,_ she thought. _It's fine. Pretend you're still asleep, then open your eyes and bolt for the door. Any door. Ready, three, two, one… _

She opened her eyes to find a cheery pair of bright blue irises staring right back.

"Aah!"

"Good morning!"

"_Aaah_!"

"Oh, dear. Antoniette, I had told you-" An Argonian was pushing aside a young Breton blonde. In fact, now that Helena got a good look, it seemed that a small crowd had formed around her bed. The bed she didn't remember getting in, in the room she didn't quite recall entering.

Other than the blonde and the Argonian, there were another Lizardfolk , a tall, slender Bosmer and an Orc. All were smiling rather amicably, indeed, even excitedly, with just a hint of latent maniacal tendencies. The Orc was holding a plush rabbit. For some reason, she found this the most disturbing detail.

"I'm sorry, dear Sister, I'm afraid Antoniette just couldn't restrain herself. I'm Ocheeva, by the way-"

"- and I'm Teinaawa, her twin brother-"

"-yes, my twin, and this is Telaendril-"

"It's so nice to meet you, we haven't had a new Sister in the family for so long-"

"- and Gogron… _Gogron_! I told you to put that down!"

"Aw, come on, Ocheeva!"

The Argonian rolled her bright green eyes to the ceiling, and sighed. "Anyway, it's our honour to welcome you into the Cheydinhal Sanctuary and – yes? You have a question?"

"Of course she does, she's just-"

"Shh!"

They all stared.

Helena gulped, and tried her best not to let her voice crack. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are all assassins, yes?"

They all nodded with enthusiasm.

"I see." Helena slung her legs over the bed. Someone had snuck two fluffy slippers next to her bedside.

She cast a look at the room. It looked like some sort of cellar, though a very well-furnished one: a set of beds, a table covered with the remains of a very chaotic breakfast, a wine rack … There were some things, however, which caught the eye of the observer like a big, dark spot on a favorite shirt. For instance, the impressive amount of assorted weaponry which lied around, seemingly cast aside like one would get rid of their shoes after a good day's work.

That, and the fact that someone had apparently taken the time to knit various quaint little lace traycloths and spread them on every flat surface available.

"These are the Living Quarters." Ocheeva explained "It's where we family members live when we're not training – or working – except for Vicente, who's got his own office.." The Argonian pointed at the door. "… down there. You'll see the Training Room later, maybe, for now I think you should-"

"Ehm." Helena interrupted her. "If it's not a problem, I think I'd _really_ like to speak with Lucien Lachance."

The two girls simultaneously burst into a dreamy "Oh, don't we _all_-" and sighed. The Orc and Teinaawa elbowed each other, snickering with suppressed laughter.

"Ignore them" Ocheeva said sternly, but Helena noticed on her face the shadow of a grin which looked very similar to that currently adorning Antoniette's expression. Only less crazy.

"I'm afraid Lucien is not here at the moment." Ocheeva apologized. "His duties as a Speaker keep him very busy, and he's often away from the Sanctuary. He left soon after he dropped you here yesterday…But I'll go and see if Vicente is up, and you can meet him after you have breakfast – he will dissipate all of your doubts, no doubt!"

Helena nodded. When Ocheeva left through the bulky doors, she found herself basically dragged to the breakfast table and submerged under an avalanche of treats and offerings, especially on Antoniette's part, who was, apparently, the unofficially-officially appointed cook.

"-and try these, I baked them with just a touch of dragonwood-"

"Shh! Antoniette!" Telaendril shushed, as Helena took a suspiciously bulky sweetroll from the Breton's hands. She was pretty sure that her mother would have had something to say concerning 'taking sweets from murderers', but she hadn't eaten in ages and that muffin looked so _beautiful_…

The Bosmer leaned over the table towards the newcomer with a conspiratorial look. Teinaawa and Gogron did the same, on either side of her.

"… Yes?"

"We've been meaning to ask-" Telaendril started.

" I mean, surely no one likes a windbag-" Teinaawa conceded.

"And murders are a rather personal issue, after all, but-" Antoniette added.

"… But?" Helena replied, between mouthfuls of sweetroll .

Gogron took a crumpled page out of his breast plate. Helena's eyebrows arched in recognizing Ra'jiradh's rather adventurous approach with punctuation.

The Orc straightened the page as best as he could and the girl could make out the head title. No surprise: it was about the Emperor's demise. "**Asssasssination!"**

What looked wrong, however, was a little picture which looked suspiciously like a sketch of her face…

Gogron held it up for her.

"Did you _really_ kill the Emperor?"

* * *

.: :.

Giovanni Civello made his way through the small, crowded and dirty alleys of the Waterfront District. The morning sun gleamed sharply off his freshly-polished breastplate adorned with the insignia of the Imperial Guard, insignia which caught the glares of many of the inhabitants of the District.

Giovanni didn't pay much attention to them, anyway. He found the building he was looking for, and, having cast a tentative gaze to check it was really the right place, raised his gauntleted hand and knocked hard on the door.

"One second, please!" bellowed a voice from inside. Then, "Come on in!"

Giovanni opened the frail door and –

… found himself staring down the point of a crossbow dart about an inch from his nose.

"Raise your hands, boy." Said the owner of said crossbow. "Nice armor, it looks almost real. You really did your homework this time, didn't you?"

Giovanni gulped and the dart pricked his Tiber's apple. "Sir, it's me – Giovanni Civello, from the Market District Watchhouse, sir!"

"Really? What's my aunt's maiden name?"

"I-I have no idea, sir!"

Adamus Phillida lowered the crossbow. "A Dark Brother would know. Relax, boy- what's with that brick, anyway?"

Giovanni lowered both of his hands, one of which still clutching an ancient grey stone.

"I fear it might be very complicated, sir." Giovanni started. Phillida swept a mound of notes and papers off a couple of stools and motioned towards it.

"As you know, sir, the Guard has been demoted from the investigation on the Emperor's death. The whole affair is being handled by the Council itself-"

Phillida snorted in disdain, but allowed Civello to continue.

"Ocato has not yet released an official statement on the issue, but if you look at today's Courier…" The younger guard took a neatly-folded piece of paper out of his breastplate and handed it to his superior. Phillida examined it with his eyebrows knitted, giving particular attention to the sketch of the girl right under the main title.

" They're blaming it on this 'Ripper' lass?" Phillida threw the page over a small pile of similar notes. Most of them were apparently unrelated to each other, but had, nevertheless, been neatly underlined, sorted and circled.

"That seems to be it, sir." Giovanni took a deep breath. "Sir, you know how I feel about that particular case, but-"

"Enough." Phillida got up and took a few steps around the small room, pacing. "Civello, you're a good guard. Personally, I think you're the best guard I've seen in a while"- and Giovanni could not help but swell a little in his breastplate- "… but that doesn't necessarily make you a smart guard."

Phillida turned to face the young man's worried expression. "I know this Ripper girl had nothing to do with Uriel. By Akatosh's scaly beard, she probably didn't even anything to do with Avidius, too, but this, boy…" The old Commander sighed. "… This is _politics_. The Empire is now a headless chicken running around, and no one wants to be the guy with the knife, especially with a crowd of people going 'Where are our eggs?'. And this is when Ocato and the other monkeys on the Council come in…"

"Sir, I-"

"The way I see it, if your Ripper is any smart, she's enjoying the breeze on the first freighter to Elseweyr, Ocato gets his sacrificial goat, the people are a little less shaky and everyone sleeps a little tighter in their beds at night."

"But…" Civello's eyes reflected the man's unease. "… That's not how justice is done!" His armor clanked when he got up. "I thought we were supposed to serve and protect-"

"Bah!" Phillida snorted angrily. "Look at me! For thirty years I've done my best to root out the Dark Brotherhood scourge! And what did I get?" He waved his hand around him. "I'm close to retiring, I live in a dump, everyone thinks I'm a madman, the Brotherhood does whatever it Nirn-damn wants to and all Imperial funding goes to that idiot of Lex and his Grey Fox search!" **(1)** Phillida rolled his eyes. "As if the Thieves Guild _really_ existed!"

"Sir." Said Civello, sternly. "Actually, the reason I've come to you is that… Well." He held out the brick. "See for yourself."

Phillida took it with both his hands. At first, he couldn't see anything, but when he held it up under the window's light, it looked like someone had scribbled over it with a piece of charcoal…

"… 'Kidnpd by the Dork Botherhood, pls help'?"

"Sorry if it's smudged a bit." Civello sighed heavily. "I've found it as I did some private scouting of the crime scene-"

"How did you…The whole area is off limits! They even put me off the case, and it's my bloody jurisdiction!"

Giovanni grinned in the smuggest way his pristine soul would allow him. "Yes, but I know some of the guys working the night shifts in the Prison, and they know me and my sis, and they let me take a look while no one was in…"

Phillida looked twenty years younger when the sacred fire of Justice burned within him. "If they did it – if they really dared…" He had taken to pace around the room like a wild Khajiit in a cage. "Gods, I can't even begin to think of the implications…"

"Sir, it's my belief that the Dark Brotherhood killed the Princes to draw the Emperor out, and waited for him in the secret passage which lead out of D'Eath's cell." Giovanni explained proudly, standing straight as an arrow.

"By Alessia's holy knickers, three Princes and an Emperor…" muttered Phillida. How much did it even cost?

"Sir, I believe that an Imperial citizen has been abducted by a criminal organization and it is my intent to find her and bring her back, so that she can bring witness on the murder of our Emperor Uriel." Concluded Civello.

Phillida turned, grinning madly. "Pack your things. We're leaving."

* * *

.: :.

When Helena awoke again, it was to the sound of a concerned voice.

"Oh dear! I'm terribly sorry, I'd never thought it would be so bad-"

There were two things in her fuzzy field of vision, now. One was a rather dusty ceiling, from which hang a single, solitary lamp, from which hang copious cobwebs. The other was a pale, bony sort of face, with skin that looked stretched and papery and red eyes and-

At this point, the sensory receptors from her nose took over. Yes, they were saying. It's what we've been trying to tell you when you passed out. Feel this burning ache in your nostrils? This, my dear girl, is what happens when you smell too much-

"Vampire! Get out!" Helena croaked. Covering her eyes with her hands, she waited as her whole body prepared itself for the ages-old dilemma of "Fight or Flight?", which in her case was always, always "flight!".

"But this is _my_ office!"

Helena peered out from between her fingers. The vampire looked amused, but not in the normal, crazily murderous sort of way one would expected. It was the quieter, somewhat devilish sort of amusement enjoyed by old ladies, their cats and public clerks everywhere. It was… too civil for an ancient, evil predator looking to slake his ancestral thirst for lifeblood.

He offered her a nifty little fan. It had small brass skulls and bats embroidered in it, and it featured more black lace than common sense would have allowed.

"Uhm, thanks." Waving it around made the air marginally better. "I take you are Vicente Valtieri, then?"

"Yes, indeed!" He looked too cheerful for a vampire, Helena kept thinking. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Vampires shouldn't have an entire cupboard of kitchy vampire-related paraphernalia._ Sweet mother Mara, is that a coffin-shaped keyring? _

"I must say, it is with particular pleasure that I welcome you in the family. It is not often that we take in someone who shares a gift that is, I dare say, as dark as mine… " He took from a small cabinet a couple of ornate glass goblets and a flash. "Do you drink… _wine_? Har har!"

"Har har." Helena went along. That was a classical example of vampire pun, preluding to a possibly endless series. The only option that offered a chance to retain her sanity was to cut straight to business. "What gave me away?"

He poured out some wine and sat in front of her. "Oh, I knew as soon as you entered. It's part of the whole vampires and werewolves ménage **(2)**, you know?"

Oh dear. "Look, don't try anything funny and I won't, either." She said. It was meant to convey the meaning of "I've no interest in taking part in a literally _ageless_ game of who is the biggest, baddest unnatural abomination, and so should you" leaving out the treacherous "because I'm pretty sure you'd win in twelve seconds, anyway".

"Do not worry." Valtieri smirked. "Long gone are the days when I'd stalk the night and sow the seeds of terror into the hearts of scantily-clad young maidens, I'm afraid." He sighed wistfully. "I've been in the Brotherhood for nearly two hundred years, you know. "

"So you're the president or something?"

"Oh no, I'm retired. Today I content myself with directing the newest members of the family, such as yourself… and aiding them in settling in."

Helena cleared her throat. "About that, I'd really appreciate if you'd keep the whole part about me being a ruthless beast of the night to yourself." _Though I find myself rather lacking in ruthlessness and to say it all, even in the 'beast' department…_ "It unnerves people."

"As you wish. I'm sure special arrangements can be made for… that time of the month? Har har!"

"Har har!" Sweet mother Mara, what was it with undeath and lame jokes? she wondered. "Yes, well, the problem is that it comes up in three days, and Lachance said I'm absolutely forbidden to leave this place until he says so."

Vicente toyed with his now empty goblet and considered the situation. "That's troubling, indeed. I don't suppose staying indoors and out of the moons' reach would be feasible, would it?"

_The problem is that the moons reach every-sodding-where I sit to have a rest for more than half a minute, and it's not just on fullmoons either!_ Helena thought. "Nope. It's compulsory. It would be really ugly if I stayed here." She went on, assertively. "I mean, I could endanger the others and stuff. That's against the rules, isn'it?" _And I will surely be endangered, too, which is probably the ugliest of all as far as I'm concerned. _"Maybe I could take just a short walk outside?"

"Oh dear, no. If Lucien finds out, he'll never let me live it down-"

"Because you're already dead, right?"

"Har har, that's a good one!"

The Breton tried not to let her eyeballs wind up inside of her brain while Vicente went on.

" Though, maybe… since it's necessary…I suppose it can be done."

Before Helena could try to hide her enthusiasm and before the thought "Good riddance" even registered in her brain, the vampire added: "Of course, I'll have to accompany you. Don't worry, I'll be veeeery discreet."

"Fantastic!" Helena said, though her tone of voice suggested something more along the lines of "Ye Gods, no" and she kissed goodbye to the prospect of easy escape.

Vicente smiled warmly. "I've seldom had someone who could follow me in my nocturnal exploits!" He clasped his hands together. "Say, maybe one of these days I can introduce you to one of my friends. He hosts the most delightful parties…"

* * *

.: :.

In a distinct and rather opulent palace in the Talos Plaza district, there was a party.

It wasn't the kind of party that enters the collective memory of people and makes them go 'Where you _there_?' for years after the event, though it was perfectly organized and all the right people were there **(3)**. It was the sort of quiet party that just seemed to push and propel people to meet and talk with each other in apparently spontaneous ways, which were really the fruit of a complex organization on the hostess's part.

She was known as Melisande Arceaux, and that was pretty much the extent of certain knowledge about her. People said – 'people' being close relatives of 'they' and 'a guy at the Inn'- that she was a high class Breton courtesan which had trained for years in Morrowind and Elseweyr, or an Imperial Bureau of Investigation double agent, a Morag Tong spy and the secret daughter of Queen Elysana of HighRock and Uriel Septim, or all of these together.

What was sure, however, is that she had just recently come to the Imperial City and that she had secured herself a cushy spot in the City's most exclusive District by the sheer power of coin. That, and she loved to host weekly parties to which you will never be invited. Never.

Right now she was seamlessly sweeping through the guest amassed in the hall, carefully selecting one from a particular group of chatters and navigating him towards another one…

It was rather like watching a surgical operation, thought Janus Hassildor. Except that, in this case, the surgeon wore a rather revealing-yet-not-enough-revealing gown straight out of Palonirya's newest collection, smiled amiably and swayed her hips in a most enticing manner.

"Count Hassildor!"

Melisande had spotted him in the crowd and was now making her way towards him. Sweet Mara, how does she manage to walk on those heels?, Janus thought in spotting the woman's footwear at the end of her very long, long legs. Years of diplomatic training in the Elder Council came to his aid, however, and when Melisande arrived his face betrayed nothing if not the utmost pleasantness.

"This is quite a surprise! You must excuse the simplicity of my little soirée" she said, waving her arms to gracefully encompass the adorned room, the tables loaded with the efforts of a dozen cooks and the small Bosmeri orchestra, "But I had no idea I would be delighted by your presence – and your little doggie, too!"

At this, Melisande extended a gloved hand to pat the fur ball in the Count's arms. There was a sound of gnashing teeth and a low growl.

"Furball!" Hassildor scolded his dog, who went back to his namesake sulking only a little bit. "You must excuse him, mademoiselle. I am afraid he's a very lazy person and I've dragged him out of his expected rest."

The Breton laughed. It was the sort of laugh that could have gotten her jailed. "My, my! You must tell me how you challenged such a terrible master, then!" Melisande pouted. "Surely it was not just for dear little me?"

Before Janus could come up with something acceptably vapid, he was rescued by his chaperon.

"I'm afraid I'm the one you need to blame, my dear girl!" cheered Ontus Vanin, senior Battlemage of the Arcane University, crunching down a couple of tarts. "Raminus couldn't make it, and since Janus had stopped by…"

If Melisande was at all disappointed, she didn't let it show, Janus noticed. Barely the hint of fixedness showed in her smile, and only a seasoned connoisseur like Hassildor was able to detect it. It went straight over the head of Vanin, to whom the world was much more simply divided – and pretty women who were nice and offered great free food were definitely in the 'good list'.

"Lady Melisande!"

A Dunmer with a richly embroidered scarlet doublet was motioning to the Breton from the other side of the room. She turned, batted her eyelashes to the mage and made her excuses.

She was followed by a dreamy sigh – coupled with some munching – from Ontus.

"Truly a beauty, isn't she, my old friend?" he said. "And these tarts are fantastic!"

Janus Hassildor patted Furball on the head, a gesture which usually marked his more thoughtful moods. "She sure seems to be… particular." He conceded, at last. "I believe not many people are hosting such a lavish party tonight with, as they say, the Emperor's body still practically warm…"

Ontus's cheerful face darkened. "I know. But as Ocato says that the best way to honor Uriel's spirit is to go on as usual, as much as that is possible."

Janus raised an amused eyebrow. "And you believe him?"

"Of course not, he's just doing his job! Besides, with the Emperor dead, I bet he's actually submerged by it."

"And what a job, indeed…" muttered Janus. It was widespread opinion that Ocato had been the one truly ruling the Empire since Uriel had come back from his imprisonment at the hands of Jaghar Tharn. Janus thought the rumors overestimated the Chancellor's power reach, but not completely so: Ocato was a competent, ambitious and powerful Altmer after all, and when it came to being manipulated by his Battlemages, Uriel had a rather embarrassing record.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?" he said to Ontus. The mage had been giving him a quick recap of all the guests.

"I say, it's weird that you should mention Ocato. Now that I think about it, did you know that they say he was invited himself?"

"'They' who?"

"Oh, you know. They." Ontus shrugged. "Anyway, he obviously didn't think it good manners to come-"

"Obviously." Janus smirked, revealing a rather impressive set of well-maintained teeth.

"… But his secretary is here, nevertheless. The one next to the column, down there."

Janus's eyes followed the mage's nudge and found the blondish head and 'look-at-how-important-I-am' expression of Evangeline Beanique, Ocato's closest clerk. As he was turning back to Vanin, however, his keen vampiric eyes caught a glimpse of movement…

He observed more closely.

Their gracious hostess had taken her leave through a backdoor, rather hurriedly. His curiosity nudged Hassildor to put down Furball and nonchalantly make his way towards the same door, through tightly-packed groups of chatters. He slid through the same door, passed a small corridor and ah, here it is…

"_- told you not to come here while I have guests_!"

"_But, Mel-"_

Melisande had dropped her courteous guise and sounded a great deal more pissed now. As for the other muffled voice coming through the closed door, Hassildor could not identify it, but it sure sounded very mortified – and terrified too.

"_Useless slug! I should have left you when I had the chance!" _

"_No, please! I will try! I can do it!"_

"_Try? _Try_, you say? Do you even know how much is at stake here-"_

"Milord? May I be of assistance?"

_Damn_! Hassildor turned. How in Nirn couldn't he hear anybody approaching? He was a Nine-damned vampire!

When he saw the man who had caught, so to speak, 'red-eared', the Count understood. Everything about him, from his perfectly tailored doublet embroidered with the Arceaux coat-of-arms, to his neatly swept back hair passing from his gleaming shoes, spelt 'butler'. But not the sort of butler who murders the Potentate Ardson in the library using the tea tray, the teapot and three sugar cubes, and when he later gets caught (butlers always get caught) cackles maniacally about all those years of paid holydays the old man owed him. Oh no, if Arnandre Leurx decided to remove your existence from his manor (butlers always think of "their" manor; after all, nobility come and go, but buildings –and butlers – stay), you could be sure no one would have noticed. Probably not even you.

Hassildor took in stride. Sweeping back some of his hair with a smooth gesture, he cheerfully smiled."Well, my good man, I find myself in quite a predicament. You see, I seem to have lost my…" He cast about an inquisitive look, taking time to examine the narrow space between a cupboard and the wall. Leurx's eyes pierced him like an arrow while Hassildor theatrically pushed back one of the classy velvet curtains to stare at the empty space behind it. Luckily for the Count, the very second before Leurx decided to take more… decisive action, the proverbial Imperial Cavalry rushed to his rescue.

"Ah, but here he is!"

He knelt and Furball jumped into his arms with the expert agility of a trained professional. "Bad dog! Bad dog! He makes me miserable sometimes…" Janus continued, giving the butler a look which suggested the shared fraternity of two men obliged to look after an eccentric master.

The butler stared.

"Now, now, let us go find Ontus, yes? You know how he gets when we leave him hanging…" Hassildor cooed. Furball was happily slobbering and Hassildor made sure the vast part of his dog's enthusiasm rained over the precious boards Elseweyrian carpet which covered the floor. Leurx's steely pupils widened in shock and the Count took it as his cue to leave.

* * *

.: :.

Lucien's day had been terrible.

It all started- well, to be fair, it was the result of a series of mildly unpleasant events, piling up together and escalating to truly terrific proportions. What was worst, they had waited the few, blissful seconds after waking up to stage an ambush and drop down on him like the fist of an angry god.

And it was all D'Eath's fault.

… _and since if things can, they will always go worse, it kept pouring down rain. _

"_What sort of assassins were they?"_

"_What sort of question is that? The murder-y sort! Why don't _you_ tell me? You're the expert, I was just minding my own-"_

"_Describe them." _

"_I don't know, they had robes and they came right out of the walls when I was there with the Emperor and then they killed him and then that guard said I was one of them but I wasn't, I'm not! I was framed by that fat bastard down at the Guard and if-"_

"_Calm yourself, will you?" Lucien squeezed the brim of his hood, causing a small waterfall to wash down over his face. "Stick to the relevant facts. Are you sure it was really the Emperor?" _

"_Of course he was! I can bloody well recognize the Emperor!" _

"_And just what would the Emperor of Tamriel be doing in the prison basement?" _

"_He was escaping the assassins! Keep up, for Mara's sake!"_

_Lucien steered Shadowmere down the path. His line of work often showed him many things ranging from moderately absurd to downright crazy, but D'Eath story set a new record. _

"_Sweet mother Mara, what am I going to do? The Legion will find me! The Blades will find me! The Gods themselves will-" _

"_Calm down, for Sithis's sake! Take a deep breath." Lucien sighed. "I'm taking you somewhere you won't be found." He said, but due to working habits it came out far more threatening than intended._

"What_? I'm not coming!" _

_He rolled his eyes. "Whatever really happened down there-_

"_I told you wha-" _

"…_You're an escaped criminal. Right now, your only chance is to lie low for a while. The Brotherhood will see to that." _

"_Right, I'll just go and throw my lot with the murder syndicate! That will surely improve my situation!" _

"_Would you rather walk up to Phillida and explain him yourself? I'm sure he would love the part where the mysterious assassins mysteriously spare their only witness." _

"_It wasn't just me! There was a Blade, too!" _

"_So it's one of the Emperor's finest against the word of a criminal, is it?" He grinned. "And isn't escape an aggravating circumstance?" _

"… _Fine. You win." _

_He couldn't help but let out a very discreet sigh of relief. Things had just gotten a tiny bit easier. _

_At least he wouldn't have to knock her out and drag her to Cheydinhal strapped across Shadowmere's saddle, that is. _

"_Welcome to the family… D'Eath." Gods, he would never have thought he'd get to say it. _

"_It's Helena. Helena D'Eath and yes, I've heard every possible joke about the name, so spare me." _

Lucien's recollections were interrupted by a loud thump coming from above. Raising an eyebrow, the Speaker took a silvery shortsword from the corner and made his way up the string ladder leading to the hidden hatch in the ceiling.

Silently unlocking the mechanism, he peered over the outskirt of the Fort from the hidden position of the hatch. His Silencer's horse was sniffing at something on the ground. Lucien looked around for Blanchard, but there was no sign of him.

His assassin instincts tugged at his gut. The Speaker left the hatch, sheathed the sword and made a few steps towards the horse…

… And there lay Blanchard.

Lucien was pretty good at making sure someone was dead, but in this case it was rather obvious. No living Breton turns such a lively shade of pale blue.

The day had gotten worse.

* * *

.: :.

J'Ghasta dodged the deadly crush of the swinging trunks with a graceful somersault. Without stopping for breath, he darted left to avoid the falling morningstar, then right, then he dived just a split second before the poisoned darts erupted from the walls.

"I don't understand why you don't use the hatch like everyone else." Lucien said when the Khajiit made his entrance in Fort Farragut's main hall, sporting a rather self-satisfied grin and swiping some non-existent dust off his shoulders. "It's not like you don't _know_ it's there."

"I like to keep myself in exercise, Lulu." J'Ghasta replied cheerfully. He went for a friendly smack on the other's shoulder, then stopped when his eyes caught the outline of the sheets which lay on Lucien's breakfast table…

"… Is that a corpse?"

"It's Blanchard." Lucien answered. He tugged at the cloth. "Here, take a look."

"Eww." J'Ghasta covered the body.

"He bled out, apparently, though the wound, here, is not nearly deep enough for it. The unusual color is a byproduct of rigor mortis and some sort of poison I haven't identified yet." Lucien explained. He pulled on a pair of thick black gloves and produced a bowl containing some disgusting goo from under the table. "This is… Oh, sorry." He quickly put it away. "That was the stomach bowl. Now, this…" He took out another plate. "… is what he was clutching in his hand."

J'Ghasta looked puzzled. "A scrap of paper…?" He outstretched his arm, but Lucien jerked the bowl away.

"Don't! It's one of my dead drops. I suspect it's been poisoned." Lucien put it away, pulled off the gloves and leant over the table. He closed his eyes and let out a tired sigh. When a few seconds passed and there was still no reaction from J'Ghasta, he looked up. The Khajiit had stuck his paws in his mouth and his yellow eyes had widened in shock.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Oh, nothing!" He started to pace around the room, tail shaking nervously. "It's just that it's the second Silencer you've lost to an unidentified killer, who has also killed a member of your Sanctuary, and there you are looking all cool and collected and asking me why I don't use the damn hatch and why I'm this close to biting off my own paws!"

"J'Ghasta…" Lucien started.

"No! Don't give me that! Start thinking about what you'll say to Ungolim and the others, instead!"

Lucien shrugged. "We're assassins. It's not like this job has a pension, hasn't it?" He waved his hand towards poor Blanchard. "These things happen."

"You've gone through two Silencers! Two! Silencers! In a _month_!"

Lucien tugged at his collar. "Ah, yes. Maybe I'll leave that part out."

J'Ghasta shot his paws into his mane. "And that Marie, too! Ah, but this is rich." He turned sharply, and pointed a talon at his friend. "Do you know what came in through a Dark Courier just today?"

"Nope. What?"

The Khajiit took a piece of paper out of his shrouded armor, rolled it into a ball and aimed it to Lucien's face. He caught it, though, and unraveled it.

" 'The family meets at the Siren, Anvil.' " he read. "Oh, by the Mother's mercy…"

"Yes, yes indeed!" J'Ghasta cried. "They're calling a meeting of the Hand three days from now, and you know we're required to bring our Silencers, and you're out of them, and I would like to know just _what on Nirn will you tell Ungolim!_"

Lucien chucked the paper away and crossed his arms, thoughtful. "Why a meeting right now? It's not in schedule."

"If that's your best shot, then you need to come up with something else." J'Ghasta replied. "Ungolim he's the Listener, he doesn't need to explain anything! _You_, instead…"

"Do you think Arquen or Uvani are planning something?"

"No, I _know_ they are. I just wished that you would realize just how deep into the mudcrab pit you are right now." The Khajiit whimpered. "These murders are going to come up in the agenda, and I don't think the Hand is going to accept vague assurances this time!"

There was no answer. When J'Ghasta turned to look at his friend, his whole being deflated in desperation.

"You're planning something ." He said, unhopeful. "Please, don't."

Lucien smirked, reached out and slapped him on the shoulders.

"I'm going to need your priceless collaboration."

"Yes. You always do." J'Ghasta droned on.

"It will be _glorious_."

"Yes." J'Ghasta sighed. "You always say that."

* * *

.: :.

At dinner, Gogron was busy reenacting his latest "contract" using the salt and pepper shakers, a half-empty mug of beer, two apples and one of Teeinawa's pastry rolls. Telaendril was relating her latest scouting mission in the Imperial City, which from some reason seemed to involve a lot of discussion on Palonirya's new collection. Antoniette half listened and half bickered with Vicente over the subject of garlic, while Ocheeva tried to sedate the dispute even though she couldn't keep herself from slipping in Vicente's support. All in all, it was a glorious mess, reminiscent more of a class of unruly students on leave than of a nightmarish sect of merciless criminals.

"So, what do you think of the family?" Vicente's amused voice whispered. He appeared to have taken a break from the garlic battle. "Aren't we a marvelously dysfunctional ensemble of… _unique_ individuals?"

Helena gulped a few times, eyebrows raised. Translating from vampirespeak…Well, if _he_ had said it, then it was ok, wasn't it? "You have to be crazy to get signed up here, don't you?"

The vampire chuckled. "No, but it helps." He raised his glass and swirled its contents expertly. "Don't worry, you'll soon fit in."

Before Helena could come up with something suitable – _that is soooo vampire wit _simply didn't hold up- the doors of the Quarters swung open and everyone's fork, goblet or utensil of choice stopped halfway to their mouth. Lucien Lachance scanned the room from the entrance and his gaze fell on Helena with the same ineluctability shared by taxes and death. As, Helena noticed, everyone slowly and only slightly ebbed away from her (herself included, to her amazement), the Speaker pointed at her and said…

"You. In Vicente's office. Right now."

Then he stormed out as he had came in.

Helena's legs, despite the heated protests of her brain, got her up and walked her out of the room.

There was a pause of about ten seconds or so, during which everyone appeared to be deeply interested in either the ceiling or the floor.

"Oh, dear." Teinaawa mumbled. "Such a shame."

Gogron burst out sobbing. "I liked her! Why does she have to go?"

"Oh, Gogron, I'm sure it's nothing…" Telaendril patted him on one of his giant orky pauldrons.

"Nothing?" Antoniette rolled her eyes. "Do you remember the last guy _he_ called out like this? I do, because I still have bits of him on my apron I can't get rid of!"

Gogron sobbed harder. Telaendril shot the Breton a "look-what-you-have-done" glare.

"Yes, but that guy had screwed up! What did she do?" Teinaawa added.

Everyone's gaze immediately found its way to the crumpled Courier page, left forgotten in a corner of the room.

"But she said she hadn't!" Telaendril said, skeptical.

"Wouldn't you say that too, if you had really…"

"Of course not! It'd be _great_!"

"Enough, now." Vicente quieted them with a wave of his hand. "No one is getting slaughtered tonight, do you hear me?"

They all nodded, even Gogron, though he was still sniffing.

"And now", Vicente said, getting up. "I'll go and see what the matter is." _And maybe tell Lucien he needs to ease off the theatrics_.

* * *

.: :.

(**1**)Right now, in a different part of the City, Lex was loudly complaining to one of his subordinates that "All Imperial funding goes to that idiot of Phillida and his stupid Dark Brotherhood search! As if the 'Night Mother' _really_ existed!"

(**2**)No one really knows why vampires and werewolves always find themselves pitted against each other in a deadly struggle, probably because no one gets the chance to ask them about it and then report back with news. Vampires enjoy questionable pun on words, fine arts, good conversations . sports and blood. Werewolves enjoy hunting, ripping flesh, and blood. It is probably a problem of conflicting interests.

(**3**)Except for Voranil, who had witnessed his exclusive parties get progressively emptier and emptier as all the guests migrated to Melisande's ones. He sat alone in Riverview and loudly complained to the furniture that "It's not like I _really_ liked any of those bastards, anyway."


	4. Chapter 3

_Hi there. My beta is back! _

_Aaaaand I suppose I suck at titles, but that's no news, really_

_Oh yes! I was supposed to say that this chapter is shorter than usual, because... well, things need to be set up. Small rocks rolling down causing avalanches, butterflies flipping wings... you know the sort.  
_

* * *

Chapter three, in which pawns arrange

"There!" Lucien announced, encircling the small, desolate village with a wide gesture. "Pell's Gate, as dull as dull can get."

Only a muffled mumble came in answer from the person riding shortly after him, arms strapped around her horse's neck and sleepy eyes staring emptily at the road.

"Don't tell me you're already tired." No answer came. "Surely you've ridden all night before, haven't you?" Lucien fished around in his brain for some details on D'Eath's time as a 'civilian'.

"Didn't you use to be a courier?"

"Glarb." Helena blurted. "I walked. Never could stand horses, and the feeling is mutual."

True enough, Lucien thought, recalling how strangely stubborn the cheap painted horse had been when he had first presented it to D'Eath. It had absolutely refused to have anything to do with her all… until Lucien had left it in Shadowmere's company for a couple minutes. Lucien's mare could be _really_ persuasive.

"So _you_ walked everywhere? Now I know why they call it 'snail mail'."

The Breton glared. Lucien gloated.

Helena decided to drop the subject. "Why are we stopping here? Last night I got the impression that someone might as well set my pants on fire. Such a hurry we were in…"

"Indeed, time is of the essence." Lucien conceded. He stopped Shadowmere at the stables of Pell's Gate's only inn, and dismounted. "But I have to meet someone here. A friend."

"So _you_ have friends?"

"Why don't you bite that tongue of yours and remember I'm your superior?"

"Tsk tsk!"

They both looked up. The small shed that housed the horses of the inn's customers rattled while someone – or something – slid off the moldy wooden roof and dropped down behind them.

"I can't leave you a day and you get into a fight with…-" With feline agility, J'Ghasta recovered upright stance and make a rather flashy bow. The Khajiit's eyes darted from Lucien to Helena, and lost all their starting brio. "… It's _you_."

"Charming." Helena said. (Who is talking there ? J'Ghasta ? :D )

"J'Ghasta, Speaker for Bruma, meet Helena D'Eath." Necessary introductions made, Lucien turned towards the Breton girl. "And now that we've been acceptably civil, it's time for duty. D'Eath, get inside and get me some breakfast."

Helena's face was the picture of outraged disbelief. "Are you _serious_? What am I, the maid-"

"Didn't I already say something about my superior rank?" Lucien grinned and J'Ghasta grinned back, fangs and all. "You did!"

The Breton shook her head just slightly while looking Aetheriusward. "Fine! I'll get something for mister Wonderful too, shall I?"

J'Ghasta watched her disappear through the inn's door. When he turned, Lucien said: "Why the long face?"

"Please, please tell me a single good reason to bring D'Eath."

Lucien sported his best grin. It could have sold snow to people living in Skyrim, but J'Ghasta had known Lucien for a looooong time.

"My dear ball of fluff, I'll tell you several. First of all, she's a D'Eath…"

The Khajiit's paw hit his owner's forehead with a loud smack. "Sweet Mother, is this really it?" He sighed. "Lucien, I know how you owe nearly everything to Jacques, but you have to keep in mind this is his daughter, not _him_!"

Lucien waved him away. "I was more thinking of the effect her surname is going to have on someone as traditionally-minded as our friend Alval Uvani. I mean, flesh of the flesh of one of the Brotherhood's legendary members? You have to admit, it carries a certain charm."

J'Ghasta looked unimpressed. "The same Uvani who thought a further inquiry in 'legendary member' Jacques D'Eath's death was, and I quote, 'an unnecessary waste of effort'?"

The other did not bother to reply. "Second: she's my Silencer, a member of my Sanctuary _and_ a sufficiently attractive young woman, thus fulfilling the characteristics of the traitor's previous victims all in one… "

The Khajiit's hairy brows furrowed. "Wait, do you mean you're going to…"

Lucien held up three fingers of a gloved hand. "Third: while her name might mean something to the Hand, she's new to the Brotherhood, so unknown to the others…"

The Bruma Speaker looked at his friend with a disheartened expression. "Sometimes I wonder whether you're really a cold hearted, selfish and murderous bastard or a cold hearted, selfish and murderous bastard who has gotten good at occasionally behaving like a normal person." He shook his head and exhaled deeply. "D'Eath doesn't know, does she?"

"No reason to spoil her performance. Her acting abilities will be critical."

"Talking about abilities, you're aware she's probably worthless in a fight, don't you?"

"Fourth: if this goes awry, the Brotherhood loses nothing… "

"Lucien! _Seriously_!"

The Imperial snickered at the Khajiit's shocked expression. "I was just kidding. I'm going to be looming over her shoulder like an invisible, overprotective guardian ghost." J'Ghasta breathed a little in relief.

"And this is when you come in." Lucien went on. "I need you to precede me at the meeting and stall it."

"Stall it how? It's not going to be easy!"

"I won't need much time. Just discuss Arquen's nose or something until I get there with the traitor."

J'Ghasta looked thoughtful. "Alright," he finally said. "You better show up, though, or else I swear I'll be the one voting the Purification on you!" he added, pointing a sharply-tipped finger straight into the other's chest.

Lucien put an arm around the Khajiit's neck and strangled him in a lock. "What would I do without you, Fluff?"

"Argh!" J'Ghasta hastily freed himself and took a few steps back. "I should go before D'Eath comes back, sees you acting like an actual person and loses all her reverential fear of you…"

"And we wouldn't want that!"

"Not at all!" J'Ghasta placed his paws on the edge of the roof and pulled himself up. "By the way, you'd better disguise her somehow" came his voice from above. "Don't you read the papers? They're saying she killed the Emperor!"

"Seriously?" Lucien asked, quizzical. But J'Ghasta had already left.

* * *

.: :.

Sailors say that you get clear, crystalline calm sea only on two occasions. The first is just before a really big storm starts. The second is when said really big storm is passing through and you've reached its eye, a slimmer of momentary rest during which it would be wise to reacquaint with your deity of choice and then tie yourself really tight on some floating material.

Right now, the Arceaux estate was in such a moment. Mistress had just woken up.

"Please, master Blevin, calm yourself. The mistress does not like to be disturbed-"

"Disturbed? It will not be me what she finds disturbing!" The fidgety young man with dirty blonde hair paced back and forth in the main hall, threatening to wear a hole in the precious Elseweyrian carpet, which had already been put under duress by the effects of last night's party. Every sticky stain of sugary beverage and forgotten pastry were like nails on the blackboard of Arnandre's butler soul, but Blevin Arceaux's restlessness poured out all the inkstands and scribbled on the walls. Still, Arnandre called upon years of steely, butlery discipline and soothed his nerves.

"I must go in! I must!"

By now the mistress would have finished her raspberry-and-cinnamon croissants and would be about to take up today's paper, Arnandre reasoned. Then she would _surely_ be displeased. There was no point in delaying the inevitable and maybe it was better if he just sent the boy in now. After all, that way, Melisande's anger would have had two targets instead of one…

"Very well." The butler stepped aside and Blevin tried his version of bursting dramatically through his sister's bedroom door, but with the sole result of a sore shoulder. From inside, Melisande chuckled.

"Come in, Blevin! Or did you forget how to use handles – _again_?"

The young man tinkered a bit with the brass handle and slipped through the door. Arnandre followed through: the Arceaux siblings were the sort of high-class nobility that has been bred to think of the servants as talking, moving furniture, and Arnandre had been in the family ever since they both were babes. Besides, butlers famously can't eavesdrop, can they?

Melisande was now very different from the predatory seductress of the night before. When she was out of her "work clothes" – which included at least three trunks of the latest Imperial fashions, several pieces of insanely embroidered underclothes and a nigh infinite supply of shoes – Melisande liked to indulge her practical side with a baggy robe with "Kiss the mage" stitched on it and head-shaped slippers which she had crafted herself and which were supposed to resemble Galerion the Mystic, founder of the Guild **(1)**.

"So, what news do you bring, Blevin?" Melisande's rosy lips were peppered with crumbs and little specks of raspberry jam. She wiped them off with a swipe of her hand and smiled at her sibling.

The day's copy of the Courier lay still untouched on the breakfast tray, Arnandre noticed. That might explain the good mood.

That, and raspberry jam.

"Ehm." The boy was desperately trying to keep something from his sister – out of sheer, automatic instinct to delay the inevitable - but his face was an open book. A book which Melisande had read multiple times, underlined the relevant passages, crossed out the parts she didn't like and then wrote a malignant letter to the editor. Melisande needed only a raised eyebrow, and Blevin's nerves gave out.

"I can't do it."

"Yes?" The woman's voice dripped amusement. "Work with me here: what, specifically, in the nearly infinite possibilities, can't you do?"

"Find her! I can't."

Melisande rolled her beautiful green eyes to the ceiling. "We discussed this!" She sighed, then started rehearsing in a sing-song voice. "We set up base here, we gathered information, we found her…" Melisande waved her hand in the air. "The little idiot had already gotten into a mess with the Guard captain, so all we had to do was…"

"I killed the guard!" Blevin always looked like he was about to spring up running at any moment's notice. Long conversations made him especially uncomfortable. "So she got jailed!"

"Yes, I know…" Melisande cringed. As usual, Blevin had taken one of her perfectly reasonable plans, rushed it through and very nearly botched it. When she had told him to eliminate Avidius, she had hinted she wanted it to look like something D'Eath – a young woman of no brawn and very little brains – would have done. The problem was that once this information had been filtered in the bubbling, swirling mess between Blevin's ears it had come out like "make it look like something _you_ would do". Which, in her brother's case, was _always_ a mess and nearly never what she had wanted.

Ah, but her fault for not being precise. She should have known better than that, dealing with Blevin. Besides, it had been full moon, too… Thankfully, she had been there to keep an eye on him.

"So now, dear brother, tell me what on Nirn is keeping you from just _strolling_ to the Imperial Prison, collect D'Eath and bring her here. Must I draw you a map? … _Must I_?" Melisande added, remembering who she was dealing with. "Is that why you failed, last night?"

"They killed the Emperor!"

"Yes. I am sure it is very sad. And?"

"She was in prison!"

"We just went over that."

"They killed the Emperor in prison!"

"That is… interesting." Melisande conceded. "But it hardly concerns us. I'm getting a headache." She crossed her arms and stared fiercely at Blevin. "Take a deep breath and get to the point."

The young Breton man finally let it all out. "They killed the Emperor in prison and she escaped and now _I can't track her down_!"

* * *

.: :.

"We can stop here a little while." Lucien said. He slid off the saddle and let Shadowmere wander off a bit.

"Where are we?" Helena asked.

"Somewhere on the Gold Road. Skingrad shouldn't be far."

Helena rested her forehead against a tree trunk and breathed out. When she reopened her eyes, Lachance was staring at her with an expression halfway through amusement and curiosity.

Still leaning on the tree, she rotated her head a bit towards him."What you're looking at?"

Lucien looked suspiciously like the cat that swallowed the pigeon."So, the Emperor is really dead."

"Oh, Mara."Helena let her body slid down and dropped on the ground, sitting cross legged. "Yes, yes, he is. Read the paper, have we?"

"Obviously, you didn't do it." Lachance went on. "You lack even the amateurish, enthusiasm-driven finesse displayed by the actual perpetrators."

"I'll take it as a compliment."

"It's not!" He crossed his arms and looked sternly at her. "Your first murder was terrible! I'd have expected such a shoddy execution from someone like Gogron, but _you_…"

"Me what?" Ye Gods, is he _scolding_ me? Helena thought. _Maybe it's better if I don't break him the news right now… _

"Nevermind." Lucien said. "What matters is that we're getting closer to more populated areas." He drew closer and Helena could help but edge away against the bark. He seemed slightly offended. "This won't hurt a bit." A barely detectable swirl of magical energy flickered around his right hand.

Helena jerked. "Agh! Don't! I'm allergic." She rolled shortly away.

"What? Don't be an idiot. You can't be allergic to magic."

"An expert, are we?" She snorted. "When you have to drag my limp body to the healer don't tell them I didn't warn you!"

Lucien debated the question to himself for a moment. If he cast the Illusion spell and she died, or sprouted extra appendices or Sithis-knows-what-else happened with 'magical allergies', his plan went forfeit. But he had already risked too much and neither could he afford to lose her to a few Empire enthusiasts out for revenge…

"I'm not taking you through Skingrad like this and I'm not detouring to avoid the city. We must disguise you somehow, though: there's your face on every Courier."

"Hey, I can cut my hair and pretend I'm your little brother!" Helena was actually offended when he appeared to consider this thoroughly, scratching his chin and all, but Lucien nixed the idea. "Though despicably… distinguishable, your hair is one of few redeeming features you possess. We mustn't ruin it."

"Redeeming? _Redeeming_? What are you implying, you de-" Her vision when dark.

Lucien closed the bag on Shadowmere's saddle while D'Eath struggled to get free of the hooded shirt he had just thrown her.

* * *

.: :.

It is night. There is a square, and a statue, and in front of the statue, an elf.

It is a small statue, and a small elf, though it would be wise not to remind the elf of his height, lest you join other nosy inquirers at the bottom of the Bravil canals.

The small elf wears a small green doublet and small green boots. He has a small torch and a small dagger in a small sheath at his waist, though it would be wise not to underestimate such a small dagger, lest you join other foolish inquirers at the bottom of the Bravil canals.

They say that if you kiss the statue, you get good luck. The small elf would never dream of committing such an outrageous act of disrespect. Those idiots don't know what they are dealing with.

He fixates his small eyes on the small statues, and waits.

Nothing happens.

This perplexes him.

The small statue keeps smiling.

The small elf falls over quietly.

A small dart from a small crossbow made a small hole into his small skull. Tragically, with skulls, a small hole is often more than enough.

There is a very small pool of blood.

* * *

.: :.

"Did you check under the bed?" She patted down.

"What?"

Helena rolled her eyes. When they had finally got in Anvil, she had hoped she might be able to enjoy a moment's respite. The "Floating Bowl" wasn't going to win any awards as far as inns went, but it was fine enough and it had real beds and she couldn't wait to get into one and sleep until the death of the Gods.

Except that Lachance had been nosing around her room for a good thirty minutes now, inspecting the armoires, the window, the walls and the very floorboards themselves.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Standard security measures. It'll come to you after a while, don't worry."

"Well, have you checked under the bed?"

"Don't be an idiot. No one actually hides there."

"Are you _sure_?"

He didn't answer. "Speaker" Lachance had the uncanny ability to ignore most of what she said and keep pouring down his own conversation tree like nothing had happened. It was probably a job perk – it was definitely rude – but the more time she spent with Lachance, the more Helena realized that he really did just want someone nodding along while he and his ego were chatting.

"So, what happens now?"

"I have things to do in town, tomorrow. It won't take long, but I'll be away."

"Alright. Where are we going?"

Years of practice allowed Lucien to keep a perfectly composed face as he internally giggled out of sheer glee. "Oh, you're not coming."

"What?"

He shrugged. "It's a very delicate mission. You'd just hinder me, or mess it up, or get into trouble. I'd have to watch out for you, constantly!" Lucien visibly shuddered. " It's best you wait here."

"Oh, that's rich." Helena started "So you dragged me out, smuggled me through half of the bloody province and made me wear your used clothes just so that I could ran errands and warm up the pancakes while you went out and did the murdering stuff?"

Lucien braced. She was nearly there. Just a small push…"

"You're my Silencer. You do what I tell you. That's how it works." He said, as if he were stating a universally-acknowledged fact like "There are two moons" or "Khajits lick their butts."

"Mother Mara!" A small part of her brain tried to remind Helena that jumping up, pointing fingers and bitch at master assassins was definitely not a smart thing to do, but she was way past caring now. It would probably all come to her in a few minutes, but in the meantime…"I didn't join your murder guild so that I could be your maid!"

"No, you did because you are a hunted fugitive." Lucien went on, in the same way as before.

"That doesn't mean any- Look, what I mean is that I'm a trained professional!"

"You're a delivery girl!"

"A _courier_!"

" A glorified postman, at best!"

Before D'Eath could breathe in enough air to retort with something suitably insulting – he watched her ribcage dilate subtly with a good dose of amusement – Lucien dropped the final bomb. "Well, actually there _is_ something – mind, it's not anything strictly official, but it will do…"

* * *

.: :.

**(1)** The thing about those slippers was that they were so horrendously bad assembled (due to a seaming accident, the left Galerion head had three eyes) that they distracted every onlooker from a vital fact, which is as follows: Melisande might not have been worth sticks with a needle, but she was a very accomplished enchanter. And anyone trying to assault her while she had her guard down – anyone, let's say, trying to speed themselves up the Guild's promotion chain while their opponent was seemingly enjoying a good read and a hot cup of tea – would have soon found out just how many spells one could work into those terrible pieces of footwear.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter four_

_In which there are a lot of meetings_

Crime never sleeps. Justice too.

Civello did, however, or at least he would have liked to, but the commander had insisted on checking out the crime scene, and since the Council had restricted all access to the tunnels the only way to sneak a look was to sneak in during the guard shift.

The _break-of-dawn_ guard shift.

But Civello didn't care. When duty to the Empire and its citizens called, Giovanni Civello wasn't going to be found wanting. Or sleeping.

The underground sections of the Imperial Prison were still empty. Commander Phillida had anticipated this. "Those bastards don't want anyone finding out the truth, see?" he muttered. The Ayleid walls all around them reflected the torchlight with a weird greenish glow. "Guards talk, so they post as few of them as they can get away with. It's not like there's anything to protect anymore."

Civello lead the way through the passages, listening out for the clinking of Imperial Legion armor. The commander had made him leave his own at home, since theirs was a secret investigation. He supposed it made sense, but… Skulking in the dark were he wasn't supposed to, not wearing Guard armor, not being on Guard business… It made him feel _criminal_.

He manned up. A true Guard was always a Guard, and he was on a Case.

"This is it, sir." He whispered. He eased open the door to an old undercroft. Centuries ago, it had been built to store the Emperors' wine bottles, and now its chilly ambience was being used to store the Emperor's assassins. Four pairs of glassy eyes glared at Civello. His breakfast moved awkwardly inside his stomach.

Phillida scratched his chin. He had the sort of chin you could have used to set the foundations of cathedrals.

"No weapons. Conjurers?"

"Yes, sir. All the daggers disappeared when the Blades cut them down. Nifty trick, summoning your own murder weapon out of thin air. Leaves no traces."

"Conjurers."

"Yes, sir."

Phillida kept silent. Civello waited patiently for his commander to finish the examination. He was probably noticing all sorts of little details that had escaped Civello himself. He could feel the aura of sheer experience Phillida gave off.

_He probably already knows everything. That's real guarding. _

"Civello?"

"Yes, sir?"

"How old is your sister?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"What does she know about the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Uh, sir. They're evil." He searched along for some other psychological insight, but there was none to be found. "I'd say that covers it. My sister is thankfully still unaware of the horribleness of crime, sir, though I suspect crime will rue the day she finds out. "

"But try to think about it. What's the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about the _Dark_ Brotherhood?"

Realization slouched around his ankles like thick mud and dragged him down screaming into the bottomless deeps of shame.

"Uh, they wear black, sir. I'd say they're pretty famous for it. Very stylish." Civello strained.

"So why are these four bastards in _purple robes_?"

* * *

Melisandre had found herself a nice, quiet corner of the Mystic Archives and was leafing through the pages of "The Book of Daedra".

…_Hircine, whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, the Chase, is known as the Huntsman and Father of Manbeasts. _

Bah. Elementary. Boring. Even the rocks knew that. Melisandre sent the book flying to a distant corner of the desk with a thoughtless gesture. It skidded along the counter polished by countless sweaty student palms and was already halfway over the edge before Melisandre managed to launch herself across the table, catch it and avoid unthinkable disaster.

Phew. By a hair's breadth. Now, if only-

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

Every hair on Melisandre's neck cringed as Tar-Meena, Keeper of the Archives, materialized behind her back like a vengeful spirit of bookhandling, but years of consumed practice allowed Mel to turn around and face the reptilian frown with the brightest of smiles.

"Actually, yes. I'm doing research for my next book."

"Your next book?" Tar-Meena was merciless when it came to the Archives, but the prospect of new books had already treacherously deprived her of much edge. The Breton seized the opportunity.

"Oh, didn't we meet yet? I'm Melisandre Arceaux, but do call me Mels." While Mel shook her paw, realization hit Tar-Meena like a volume of Ancient Dwemer Dirges.

"Didn't you write '_A Dissertation on Daedric Devices_?'"

Mels had the decency to blush. "Oh, _that_. Scribbles. You're welcome to my collection anytime. Gods, you're Tar-Meena, aren't you? I loved your article in Cults Monthly! Tremendous help, especially the clever, clever analysis of the difference between Nibenian and Dunmeri offering practices-"

Tar-Meena's eyes beamed with the joy of finding a kindred soul. "Had I know you were visiting…"

"A visit? Ha, I wish! Just a peek, not nearly enough for all the magnificent material you have here – Sanguine on a stick, is that _Commentaries on the Nature of Apocrypha_? I haven't read that one in ages!"

Tar-Meena smiled. "Let me pull it down for you…"

* * *

The thing about Lucien plans was that they always ended up with him - or more importantly, _J'Ghasta_ - within a kitten's hair of mortal danger and\or grievous bodily harm, which in some aspects was even worse. The Khajiit had risked his tail –or watched his friend risk that ridiculous imitation of his- more times than he cared to remember, all for Lucien to later proclaim "But it worked, _see_?" while Valtieri patiently patched them up. And yet, J'Ghasta always found himself back at square one, swearing to himself that this really was it, _it is the last moon-damned time I listen…_

The horse whinnied, tail flopping on the ground while the Khajiit knelt beside. Rain sloshed over both of them and did nothing to improve J'Ghasta's mood.

"Oh, come on, what's wrong?" The Speaker examined the animal. He whinnied again when the Khajiit touched one of his forelegs. _It's not broken, thank the Mother, though… _

"Can I help?"

Thank the Nines, you could bet on a citizen of the good Empire to always help a fellow in need, at night, on the high road, under the pouring rain. Being an assassin with quite a long career, J'Ghasta held the exact right amount of faith in the human (or elven, or beast-folk) disposition as one would expect. Thus, his arm was already bent to allow his elbow a fashionably sharp point as he turned and enjoyed a satisfying _uuhmph!_ from his dubious rescuer. There was no time to draw weapons, but then again, what use are daggers when five sharp claws can perfectly suffice?

Throwing. Throwing might have been one such use. As J'Ghasta regarded the silvery hilt that had suddenly sprouted from his left shoulder, a faint prickling reminded him that _poisoning_ was another. Then it was black.

* * *

It is a truth multiversally acknowledged, that a good inn in the possession of a smart publican, must be in want of adventurers. Adventurers come to inns in order the relieve the strife of their sacred mission, and it is the innkeepers' sacred mission to relieve them of their coin. There you could find bards, barbarians, battle-hardened brigands and beasts, boasting about their brash deeds and bumps with the law. The bartender is always polishing a mug with a dirty rag. Beer flows like wine and there is a great deal of loud singing and knee-slapping, and the more diverse the clientele, the better. However, the little group assembled at the table in the far corner was notable even for the standard market-day customers.

"So, all…_Silencers_, are we?" Helena ventured. The Dark Brotherhood rank sounded a lot more menacing when Lachance mentioned it. Intimidation probably didn't mix well with her frilly dress, but he had bought that for her the very morning and insisted she wore it at the super secret Brotherhood meeting.

"Oh, I do not have that honour" Belisarius Arius said. The Imperial was very well-mannered, and stood out weirdly as the only thoroughly clean individual in the room, smelling faintly of soap. He had taken the first round of drinks upon himself and had somehow managed to obtain a cup of tea. Helena was pretty sure the Bowl offered only ale. "I am just an assistant of Speaker J'Ghasta."

"Like a clerk?"

Belisarius's face brightened at the word. "I do all the book-keeping at the Bruma Sanctuary" His voice lowered a tone and Belisarius gave her what passed for a conspirational grin. "Sometimes, Speaker Lachance lets me do Cheydinhal too!"

"No, _really_?"

Belisarius allowed himself a small amount of gloating before he composed again. "But now, I'm just here to assist my dear brother Havilstein. He is the Silencer."

The large Nord at his right had been glaring at his mug for the previous ten minutes, without saying anything. It was unclear where Havilstein ended and his furs began, but it was probably better that way. Helena turned to her left. "What about you?"

Any slaughterfish would have been envious of Banus Alor's grin, though generally the fish did not exude the happiness reflected in the Dunmer's eyes. He giggled. Helena disconcertedly noted he had no eyebrows.

"He's with Alval Uvani, from Leyawin." Belisarius went to her aid again. "Brother Banus is a master of stealth and incognito."

"Shouldn't there be four of us?"

"Brother Bellamont will be here soon" Arius frowned.

"Is it true you killed the Emperor?" Banus blurted out. "Great!"

**WHAM! **

There was a clinking of cutlery as Havilstein's enormous fist banged on the table. "You killed him." The Nord growled solemnly.

"Erh, yes, about that…" Helena chirped. She tried to look at Belisarius, but he was facing the other way and busy frowning disapprovingly at somebody.

"I liked the Emperor." Havilstein went on. The small rodent instincts that lingered in Helena's brain from eras long gone were drawing comparisons with the furs draped across his shoulders, and the results weren't looking good.

"He was _great_!"

"That's three of us, then!" Helena gulped. "I liked him too!"

Havilstein softened, huge knuckles baring white under the skin and chair creaking under him. "Good. I kill people I like, too."

"I'm terribly sorry!" The place in front of her was filled by a newcomer. He was a Breton, with muddy brown hair and greenish eyes, and completely soaked. She realized he was the one Belisarius had been arguing with. "The roads are awful, and even worse with this latest trouble about the E-"

"Yes." Helena cut him off. "We all liked him here."

"I was just reminding Brother Bellamont that tardiness is against our Tenets." Arius said, sharply. **(1)**

"Great!"

"I hope I didn't miss anything." Bellamont apologized. Belisarius's eyebrows arched disapprovingly. "Sister Helena has joined the family. It is a great day for the Cheydinhal Sanctuary." Before Banus could say anything, Havilstein clamped his mouth with a pan-sized hand.

"Cheydinhal?" Mathieu Bellamont said. "Nice."

"Ever been there?" Helena asked, while Bellamont received his own mugful of suspiciously murky liquid.

"I've passed through."

* * *

Curse the rain. But there was no point in going in: the tavern was packed and Lucien didn't fancy passing the next couple of hours being the only empty spot in a room full of sweaty inn-goers. Besides, the traitor would have needed to take D'Eath outside to make his move: it was easier to wait for them to pass the door.

It wouldn't take long. There was only so much time an uninitiated could bear spending with Arius. _And Hoarstein, of course. And Balor._ He couldn't recall the name of Arquen's Silencer, but it didn't matter. If the traitor liked to pick off Silencers, then he was spoilt for choice. Lucien had no doubts D'Eath was going to be the chosen one: he had even made sure she wore one of poor Marie's dresses, though he had obviously spared her that particular detail.

Once he had secured the traitor, and assuming J'Ghasta had successfully stalled the rest of the Hand, he would force them to drop their charges. That was the most vital objective. Then, he could try to play it off… If he could get Uvani to back up him and J'Ghasta against Arquen for rushing their judgement, not even that little green midget could have objected anything…and Arquen would have risked her position in the Hand. _One less._ Then…

The firm grip on his arm registered oddly in his brain. It simply wasn't supposed to happen.

"The rain, Lachance." Arquen's grin flashed from under her hood. "You forgot the rain. It leaves an empty spot right were you are."

_Sithis's spit. _"Arquen…And Alval." Lucien greeted, as the Dunmer closed in from the other side and dispelled his invisibility. "Drinks on me? Say, have you seen J'Ghasta…"

"Your accomplice will soon pay for his part in this." The elf began leading him away, towards the gates. Lucien was tall, but Arquen was taller and, besides, he could feel in his back the slight heat of one of Uvani's favourite fire spells. No point in trying to break free if he was going to be incinerated.

"J'Ghasta never pays his due, trust me. He's got bills as long as his tai-"

The elf grabbed the front of his shirt. Lucien found himself definitely closer to Arquen's face than he would have liked. Surprisingly, he noted the rain wasn't the only thing dripping down her face. _Sweet Mother, is she crying? _

"He jokes!" she spit to Uvani. "Our beloved Listener, too… and he _jokes_!" Her grip tightened.

"Ungolim what?" croaked Lucien.

Uvani's sullen voice answered. "He lies dead. This is the last time you allow the murder of one of us, Lachance."

"This is ridiculous. I'll give you the real traitor, just give me a couple of hours-"

Dark red eyes flared. "You'll pay for your involvement. Or your negligence. As for the traitor…"

Arquen grinned. "We will drown him in blood. Your Sanctuary's."

* * *

"-and then I said, 'The Dread Father wants your soul!', all ominous, and get this: he toppled over, straight into the soup!" Banus beamed at the faces across the table.

"No hands," Belisarius said, "Mildly impressive."

"No crushing," Havilstein grunted, "You kill like a elf!"

"_You_ are an elf!"

"A bony _girl-elf!_"

"No, _you_ are!"

"Oh dear," muttered Belisarius, "Here we go again."

Helena downed another sip of the Bowl's patented muck. It had a sort of horrible charm that kept you gulping it down, even if in normal circumstances you wouldn't have touched the stuff with a spiddal stick a yard long.

But then again, watching a 90 pounds elf take on a Nord wasn't exactly "normal circumstances". In fact, she considered, she had long since abandoned "normal circumstances". She had waved at them until they disappeared from sight, then embarked on the crazy ship and set off.

This warranted another sip.

"Gentlemen, please." It was Arius's turn to speak now. "If this is really a-"

"-pissing contest-"

"As Sister Helena so _eloquently_ put," Arius resumed, "If we insist on sharing tales of skill, then I suppose it's only fair our newest addition discloses the manner in which-"

Havilstein banged the table again. Everyone's cups and mugs made a little jump and spilled over. "Tell us how you _crushed_ the Emperor!"

"Yes! Great!"

Here we go again, thought Helena. She eyed up Belisarius for support, but the Imperial's eyes were fixed in shock over the rather large, freshly-made tea stain on the front of his shirt.

"Uhm…" Clearly, the truth was out of question. Her imagination started spinning wildly. Vague images of gleaming daggers, shrouding darkness and rustling robes flashed behind her eyes.

Compared with what she had been listening to…

…It was all rather dull.

But wait! Oh, sheer brilliance!

"I'm sorry, brothers." Helena sighed resentfully. "Lachance told me there was to be no disclosing whatsoever." She swirled a finger in one of the little liquid pools on the table and scribbled nonchalantly. "Can't be too careful, when there's Phillida poking around…" she added with a knowing look, and then took another sip.

Banus was quick to sum up everyone's feelings. "Not great."

"I agree with Brother Banus," Belisarius said, before quickly adding, "But we obviously have to trust in the Speaker's wisdom…"

There was a moment of silence.

"Pffffff." Hoarblood said. "I bet he just wants to cash in all the merit. That's what Speakers do, they send you out when it's dark and cold and snowy and say 'Silencer Hoar-Blood, run to the store and get me another flask of Cyrodilic, no you big idiot, I meant the store in the next village over'".

"Or they post you on the rooftop and forget you're there. And then there's fire."

"Or they take out files and then stuff them back at random!"

For the first time since stepping out of the Imperial Prison, Helena felt a vague sense of kinship stirring in her stomach. Come to think of it, there was probably a lot of stirring going on in there, but some of it was definitely kinship. The complex arguments she had been patiently revising in her head through the last three days –obviously, waiting for the _right_ occasion to show Lachance just how much wrong he was on everything and how she would explain him just how with diagrams and stuff- arrayed themselves on the tip of her tongue. _Wait,_ Helena thought. _I just scored a lot of points. They're dangling from my lips. I can play this angle all evening and get them to reveal all their secrets and then Lachance will just have to reckon just how suave and cool and collected I am and how he was wrong and I was right on everything!_

_Gods, I'm _so_ good at this plotting thing. _

"Yeah, I know right?"

* * *

The night, the moons! All there was, was the Hunt. Whenever he lost the scent –terrible times those- the Hunt tore and flailed inside all day long and night –and worse, when the moons were out!- but then, just then, when he feared he wouldn't manage to restrain it anymore and it would explode and tore to pieces him and all those around him – then, he would feel it again. The prey.

So close!

* * *

"I haaate him. He's like, he thinks he's the best assash-, ashass-" Stupid consonants. _Sod them_. Helena took another sip. It was wondrous how good the Bowl's ale tasted when your taste buds finally gave up. "-killer there ever was. He isn't, tough. And he isn't though either."

Helena took care to place her mug on the table. It was especially difficult, since in the last few minutes the table counter had decided to start making an impression of the Lake Rumare waves, but she did it and took pride in a job well done.

"Blank Hand people are going to sack him, so he's finding them a traitor." The Breton giggled. "I bet they will sack him."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Nooope. Never tells me anything, sodding bastard. Just, _wait here until I get back_. All he does. Parks me." She had a strange hiccup. "Bloody useless."

"Well, I don't think you're useless. Actually, I think you're the only one who can help me out, right now."

"Mh?"

"Back at my place, I have something that I think belongs to the traitor. Some…evidence, you could say."

"Oh." Helena looked up. " Now, this was obviously secret, important stuff, meant for the ears of precious few. Good thing Belisarius and Banus were busy stopping Havilstein from liking the clientele too much.

"I need some help getting it to the Black Hand, quickly."

Some thoughtful creases appeared on Helena's forehead. "Ah. A delivery. Deliverance. Very. I'm good at deliverance. Very good."

* * *

Melisandre spent her night surrounded by her notes and some choice books (courtesy of Tar-Meena). She had just finished revising her transcription from The Posting of the Hunt, a somewhat rare volume on the market, probably because Melisandre had all the copies.

_The ritual pits the all-powerful Huntsman and his Greater and Lesser Dogs against the pitiful and doomed Innocent Quarry…_

Sadly, the whole affair depended once more on Blevin's tracking abilities. It was a hassle, but there were rules and Melisandre knew very well what her role was, and what she wasn't allowed to do. If there was any sense left in the world, the full moons would prevent even someone like her little brother from failing again. D'Eath's outrageous amount of senseless luck, for lack of a better word, was bound to ran out sooner or later.

_The Huntsman is transported by the exquisite thrill and glory of his might and dominion over his helpless prey, and at the same time touched by the tragic, noble, and ultimately futile plight of the Innocent Quarry…_

Melisandre grunted. This passage had always struck her as needlessly melodramatic. After all, the keywords here were "ultimately futile". She circled those.

_The Offices describe explains the laws and conditions of the four stages of the Hunt: the Drag, the Chase, the Call, and the View to the Kill._

_Stage One - The Drag, in which the Lesser Dogs drag the ground to flush out the Hare._

_Stage Two - The Chase, in which the Greater Hounds drive the Hare before them._

It was all so easy, when you looked at the bare schematics! Then why on Nirn they couldn't seem to pass Stage Two?

_These practices and conditions, also known as the Law, strictly define all details of the Hunt, such as how many Hounds of each sort may participate, how the Spear of Bitter Mercy may be wielded, and so forth. In addition, the Law states that the Hare must have a genuine chance to escape the Hunt, no matter how slim._

There it was. Melisandre scowled at the damned clause. It was in the Daedric equivalent of the fine print. It was also bloody ridiculous. When she met the higher powers, because she _would_ meet the higher powers, they were going to hear something about this. Oh yes.

She closed her book and closed her eyes, thinking. The next day, she was going to do some more research in the Archives. No, scratch that. If Blevin didn't come back with good news, more than good news, she was going to research dissecting small rodents. With fire.

Her mind wandered to the current events. It wasn't something remarked upon, but anyone passing through the Temple Plaza made a point to drop in at the Temple, check that yep, the Dragonfires were still out, then look around surreptitiously for any sign of demonic invasion, have a little, nervous sort of chuckle, and go about their business. At first, even she had been a little nervous about the Dragonfires: who knew what effect such a thing could have on the magical balance of things? After some careful consideration, however, she realized that if the Dragonfires' absence made the barrier between reality planes thinner, it might even work a bit in her favour.

Still… It boggled the mind. Here she had D'Eath, in a cell, all snug and trapped, finally about to finalize Stage Two and then the Emperor of Tamriel himself descended to wave a "get out of jail" card.

This was more than genuine, slim chance.

This was deliberate intervention.

Admittedly, the old bastard died, but D'Eath was missing.

Melisandre furrowed her brow, and set out to analyze the facts.

* * *

It occurred to Helena that something was wrong, very, very wrong. She mentally revised the latest chain of events in order to find out.

They had exited the Floating Bowl. As they left, a few of Anvil's Finest were hurrying in to make the acquaintance of Havilstein Hoar-Blood. Hand-waving this as the natural conclusion of a Silencer get-together and nothing to worry about, her chaperon had escorted her along the docks, taking care to steady her passage through the crates and ropes littering the dockside. She needed a lot of steading, since otherwise some trickery or other caused the ground and the sides to switch places, so that was good. Just as they were nearing their destination, some clamor from a freshly-docked ship had stopped them. Apparently, the crew and Bellamont were no strangers to each other; at least, the crew kept implying they were certainly no strangers to most of Bellamont's close female relatives. He had left her to discuss matters, but not before directing her last few steps towards the cellar of the lighthouse, where he lived and where she could wait for he would be _but a minute_. The door was unlocked.

Having a base in a lighthouse was pretty clever for an assassin, Helena thought. It was dark, and lonely, and there was no one else, and no one could hear you scream.

Also, she needed to puke. She hoped Bellamont wouldn't mind.

Helena started groping around, and after bumping her head against the side of a pretty big, dark armoire, she found a couple of sacks tossed on a table. One contained a heavy book. Not one for the defacing of literary property, she opened the other sack and sobered up.

There's nothing like a desiccated, mummified head staring right back at you to clear your mind of any vapors.

"Oh, dear. You've met Mother."

The door to the small cellar clicked close. Mathieu Bellamont had finished discussing matters.

Helena gulped. It occurred to her that it was dark, and lonely, and there was Mathieu Bellamont and his mom's severed head, and no one could hear her scream.

"Just as well. I'm afraid I was going to kill you anyway, but please forgive me the sloppy execution." Bellamont looked veritably sorry. "I swear, I've been planning this evening since I was twelve, but you can't just factor in everything, can you?"

Helena's eyes slid to the opening of the window on the right side of the cellar. The moonlight filtered through. It wasn't too small, she was sure she could have crawled out. Pity for the huge metal bars.

Many think that, when facing certain death at the hands of a master criminal, they will surely resist the impulse to state the obvious and thus waste their last precious moments with "Oh, so _you're_ the real Serial Strangler, you fie-aghrgagbbl!" and then pass into nonexistence. Not many do. It is part of human nature.

"You're the traitor, aren't you?"

Bellamont shrugged. "I'd say that's a bit excessive. You see, I have no problem, _per se,_ with the Dark Brotherhood. I wouldn't even care about the Dark Brotherhood, except that I want to destroy Lucien Lachance and anyone or anything he has ever loved, so I had to sign up."

Helena considered stating that she had met Lachance less than a week before and thus was pretty sure she wasn't even at "acquaintance" level, but human nature was still too strong. There were so many questions, not the least of which "Why me?", and her brain condensed them all in "Why?"

"Oh, as if you could just butt in at the last minute and demand to know the score! I repeat, I'm sorry, but I'm sort of on a tight schedule. I had something special in store for you, since you're Lachance's latest Silencer, but I've literally _bumped_ into someone far higher up the ladder, and the Hand are expecting me at the runestone for the main course. So…" Bellamont drew a small, sharp dagger from the recesses of his robes. "Thank you for taking part in my symphony of revenge. Adieu."

It's said that one's sense get sharper in times of danger. Helena's, already pretty sharp, noticed in passing that Bellamont's dagger was alchemically-forged silver, and registered that as a Very Bad Thing and by the way, there seemed to be some muffled bumping from the armoire? Her brain thanked them for the information, but given the circumstances, it was a moot point anyway.

Bellamont took one step closer, and then the world exploded.

* * *

When the horrible noises stopped and J'Ghasta finally managed to crack the armoire's doors just a tiny smidge open, he dared cast a look around. He was in a small cellar, and apparently all Oblivion had been let loose.

He meant to step out, but the combination of cramps and the mild narcotic made it seem more of a blunder. Thankfully, his shoulder wound didn't look serious. Not many wounds looked serious after seeing what had happened to Mathieu Bellamont, though one would need to take a step back and get a good look around the room to appreciate the full extent of it.

There was no sign of D'Eath, which was great. J'Ghasta happily filed that under "Problems on which I'll go crazy later". Right now, he needed to be fast. He rummaged around and, after peeling of some better-left-undisclosed remains, he found the book. It only took one cursory glance to know it was exactly What It Said On The Cover.

Wincing, J'Ghasta set off.

* * *

Lucien had thought things were going pretty well, for a while. Sure, they had carried him out of town despite his fervent protests. Sure, Ungolim had really been at the meeting place, except in a small brown bag strung across Uvani's saddle. Lucien had proposed waiting for J'Ghasta, who would without a doubt confirm he hadn't been near Bravil in months. He had even submitted quite cheerfully to the beating because well, Uvani and Arquen had to do something in the meanwhile and he could have probably spared them some of the jokes, and it wasn't like they wouldn't get their due when this thing was over, oh no.

Except that J'Ghasta hadn't arrived, and Uvani had put a silence spell on him, and now they were discussing knives, which wasn't good, since Lachance didn't have his on hand. Indeed, his hand were tied.

"I say we waited too much already, Brother."

The runestone markings gave off a greenish sort of light that made Arquen look even more cadaverous than usual. Before the spell, Lucien hadn't resisted making note of this to Arquen herself, and it had cost him a cracked rib.

"It is not yet midnight. Ten minutes. " Say whatever you wanted about Uvani, but not that he didn't stick to procedure.

"Ah! I can't believe it!" Arquen pointed a long, bony finger. "Do you really think the Khajiit will come? He's either slain, or an accomplice. We should get this over now."

"I don't doubt it. But if there is the smallest chance the Bruma Speaker will arrive, then we must allow it and listen to his counsel. This is the Black Hand. Our Brotherhood is sacred. I will not have it disrespected."

"Disrespect? This… This!"Arquen's finger now pointed at Lucien like it was about to go off any second "…has killed our most beloved Listener! He spilt the blood of his brothers and still manages to crack a joke about it!"

Lucien rolled his eyes. Arquen's ego so often got in the way of her priorities.

"I'm well aware of that, sister Arquen" Uvani said. "But this is how it will go. At midnight, if we are not joined by Speaker J'Ghasta, we will assume he's dead." He turned to Lachance. "And with the offer of the traitor's blood, we shall seek the Night Mother's counsel."

Lucien grunted soundlessly in the grass. Things were not going well.

Arquen conceded at last. "Very well. How long?"

"By the look of the moons, not more than a few minutes."

The Altmer set about waiting with the same expression found on a typical queue outside the Imperial Regulation Bureau. Lucien braced for the sound of approaching horses. Or boots. Paws, even.

Nothing happened.

"Well, that's about it, I guess." Uvani checked the sky, nodded to his satisfaction, and then turned. Arquen unrolled a selection of blades worthy of a true collector.

"I think I'll go for some flaying, first." She mused. "Then, fingers. Oh, and that horrible hair."

_This is it,_ Lucien thought. _At the end of it all,_ _the short Bosmer bastard really did get me, even if he had to die for it. Oh, how J'Ghasta will laugh when he hears. _Then, he remembered J'Ghasta was probably dead already.

Arquen's knife was making the hairs on the back of his neck raise up. Soon, that wouldn't have been a problem anymore. Lucien set out not to let a sound pass his lips, no matter what she'd do, but then remembered Uvani's spell_. Heh. _

The silencing spell was also part of the reason the scream took all of them by surprise. Lucien looked up, and the high grass on the slope descending from the old Mara sanctuary parted awkwardly to reveal the stumbling, bag-clutching form of…

"Who's there?" Uvani barked, fire already encircling his hands.

Lucien looked up. He was mildly disconcerted to discover his Silencer coughing up dust amid the rocks. He just now realized he had already written off D'Eath as a goner and was positively surprised to feel something stir in his chest, akin to rising hope. Or maybe pleura.

D'Eath's first stream of words were a bit too fast, but being Banus Alor's Speaker had acquainted Uvani with a remarkable ability to discern gibbering. The Dunmer turned.

"Lachance, do you confirm she is really your Silencer?"

Lucien nodded emphatically.

"Wait, his Silencer is a man, I remember him. What happ- Oh." Arquen pursed her lips. "More blood on your hands, Lachance?"

Lucien shook his head.

"No, no!" D'Eath had regained her breath. "It's the other one! He said he had proof about the traitor and I went to his house and there was a head and then he said it was his mother and he wanted to kill Lachance and the Brotherhood and me too!"

"And?" Uvani inquired.

"And who cares?" said Arquen. "It's the worst half-assed, fabricated piece of excuse I have ever heard. I don't know why we're wasting precious seconds. I'll kill her first, if you won't Silence her."

"He said he wanted to kill everything Lachance loved!" Helena shrieked. "It was _Bellamont_!"

The name dropped in the clearing like a shroud of silence.

"Careful how you speak of my Silencer, Breton." Arquen threatened. Neither she nor Uvani, however, glossed over the fact that D'Eath had used the past tense.

"Do you have any proof-" Uvani started.

"Are you even _considering_-"

"Enough!" The Dunmer's flare brightened again and Arquen held her tongue. "Silencer D'Eath. Do you have any proof about what you say? Your life depends on this."

Helena nodded. "There was a book with everything! He said he had been planning for years!" She emptied her bag.

The head fell over with a wet "plop!". Everyone found themselves staring at the late Madame Bellamont with varying degrees of discomfort.

"I grabbed the wrong bag." Meeped Helena, but Arquen had already thrown her alongside the bound Lachance. The two of them exchanged glances. The worst thing, Helena thought – if one didn't consider the present situation as a whole, of course, and possibly the next few minutes if Arquen had any say about them- was that Lachance didn't even look disappointed. After all, you can't be disappointed when you lack any real expectations.

"-ridiculous." Arquen finished. "A desperate ploy to shift the blame and escape punishment."

"Where _is_ your Silencer, anyway?"

"How should I know? As far as I know, the wench or her master probably killed him by now, to make him look the culprit."

Arquen and Uvani glared at each other. The high levels of paranoia necessary to survive in the Black Hand were making their mental gears spin wildly. If D'Eath was lying, an egomaniac and his deranged girlfriend had decimated the most powerful brotherhood of assassins in the Empire **(2). **If she wasn't lying, whoever had decimated the most powerful brotherhood of assassins in the Empire was still around. Suddenly, both reconsidered their career choices under a new light. Their eyes were drawn to the small luggage formed by Ungolim's still form, then to the head lying on the ground. The head tended to draw a lot of glances.

Harsh times call for harsh measures, thought Uvani, and when in doubt, look to your elders for inspiration. Putting together these two drops of wisdorm, the Leyawiin Speaker decided to do what the Brotherhood did since time immemorial when the game got tough, the stakes were high and times uncertain.

"Let's kill them both."

"Finally!" Arquen drew a long, convoluted blade. "Lachance first."

"_Hold it!" _

J'Ghasta stood at the edge of the clearing. Even better, Lucien noted, the small mountainous formation behind him was Havilstein Hoar-Blood himself. He should have recognized the smell. Lucien would have never thought to be ever so glad to see him.

"Excuse my tardiness." J'Ghasta went on. He took a step closer, grimacing only slightly. "You know how sometimes you're reading and you just get sucked in the book?"

"No", said Havilstein.

"Well, don't you want to hear this, my enormous friend?"

Havilstein considered. "Yes". He looked around, as if daring anyone to disagree, but people seldom disagreed with Havilstein Hoar-Blood.

"Very well. I'm not a fan of poetry, myself, but this thing is a masterpiece. _'I pledged to you that day the Brotherhood would dearly pay and just as they took me from you I'd find and kill their mother too'_!" J'Ghasta was reading aloud from a heavy, worn out book. "It gets better. _I will learn the Night Mother's identity and tear her heart from her chest._ _The Black Hand is suspicious. They suspect treachery, suspect a traitor! I must be more cautious than ever. _This is my favourite: _I will plunge my blade into the Dark Whore's fetid heart. _Then it gets derivative, I'm afraid: it's just 'kill Lucien Lachance' over and over." The Khajiit flipped the last pages through his paws. "I wonder who's the author?" He made a show of checking the first few entries. "Oh my, it _is_ signed 'Mathieu'!"

Arquen shifted awkwardly, but wasn't ready to give in yet. "Treachery in the Black Hand, after all!" she cried.

"If I were you, dear Sister, I'd ask myself how on Nirn did I let such a heavy-" J'Ghasta dropped the book for effect. It resonated with a loud thump. "hint escape my notice."

The balance of power shifted abruptly. The Altmer flinched under Uvani's stare.

"If I may say something-" J'Ghasta started.

"You've spoken enough, Brother." Uvani shushed him with a gesture. "I've delayed this far too long. We're seeking the Night Mother. Now-" he said, preventing Arquen from speaking again. "Recite the incantation."

* * *

That was that. A shimmering blue glow, and they were gone.

Helena shakily stood up. The clearing was empty, except for Havilstein, the disembodied head of the late Bellamont woman and the glow of the runestones. The members of the Black Hand had been transported away.

There was a dead Bosmer on one of the saddles.

Helena didn't comment. She was past commenting. Right now, she'd liked nothing more than to imitate the rocks and fall asleep.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder with the certainty of doom. "They'll be back when they're done." Said Havilstein.

"Mrph." Said Helena, massaging her shoulder bone.

"I saw what you did at the lighthouse." Havilstein looked impressed. "You kill like a Nord." He produced a small flask from some unfathomable depths in his furs. "Here. Drink this. You deserved it."

Helena looked inside the flask. It was surely worse than what she had had at the Bowl, but it appeared it was just that sort of night.

"Pass it here."

* * *

**(1)** Arius operated on a personal version of the Tenets. For starters, there were at least seventeen, and constantly updated. They included "Never be late", "Never use capital letters senselessly", and "Never procrastinate the inventory".

**(2)** Morag Tong be damned.

* * *

_I love all of you guys, especially the ones leaving the sweet, sweet wordthings. I can't seem to log into anything right now, and I'm rubbish with names, but every single one of you is awesome. As for the person concerned about the Pratchett issue, I'd love to discuss further but can't do it here due to moving in spoilery territory. Drop me a PM and we'll talk more. 3_

_slowly but inevitably. like a glacier. that's how this thing moves._


	6. Chapter 6

.: :.

It was a clear, crisp sort of day that had dawned on Skingrad that morning. The air was pleasantly warm and encouraged the good townsfolk to get out with a smile of undeniable optimism, the secret knowledge that, even if the current events certainly did not bode well, as long as there were bright mornings, there was hope.

It is a horrible thing to witness when you're not part of it, so Helena D'Eath stopped looking out the window and focused again on the interior of the Two Sisters' Lodge. The publican was an Orc, and her establishment was both much quieter and much classier than the Flowing Bowl, for reasons akin to the huge battleaxe casually hung behind the counter.

"Have this. It will help you come round."

She stared at the fuming mug that had been slid across the table to her. At the other side, Lucien Lachance sat with the air of someone entirely too satisfied with himself, but with the novel addition of a split lip's aftermath.

"It's Elsweyrian coffee with a little something extra. J'Ghasta swears by it. A sip, and you'll be good as new!"

Helena looked at the mixture, thinking it high time she stopped imbibing things suggested by members of a infamous death cult. Next time, she promised. Next time, reflecting sadly on how there would surely be a next time.

Having done his best to get the bare civilities out of the way, Lachance passed straight on to business. "So, you might be wondering what transpired from last night's events…" Taking silence as consent, Lucien went on. "You will be pleased to know the lives of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary members have been saved, thanks to your efforts… and mine."

"The Brotherhood is safe again, though, of course, we can never forget just how close we came to ruin. Thankfully, we can be sure our fallen brothers and sister have joined Sithis, as all His beloved children."

Still nothing. And yet, he had been sure taking a turn for the rhetorical would have caused at least a sneer. "You _are_ feeling well, yes? I know we could not rest, but I'm afraid it was important to put as much distance between us and Anvil as we could manage."

D'Eath nodded. Lachance did not easily feel concern, but in moments like this, passing curiosity could suffice, and it allowed a smudge of praise to come through. "J'Ghasta told me it was you who dispatched Bellamont -" he conceded, but then the usual Lachance came back in force and it was again time for constructive criticism "- though you could have tried to keep him alive for questioning. Even just barely-"

"You." D'Eath had raised her face from the cup and was now looking right at him. "You sent me to have _tea_ with the crazy maniac."

Lachance had stared into lots of eyes (usually delighting in infinite variations of a vaguely surprised look as the victims realized what had just happened) and laughed in scorn at the old "_Eyes are the windows of the soul!_" saying. If eyes were really windows, then Lachance was the mystical equivalent of an eight year old with a suitable rock in hand and a wilful stare. For obvious reasons, he never came eye-to-eye with the people he worked with more than once**,** but now… D'Eath, someone who he had been happy to employ in one of his plans in the full knowledge she might come to harm… was looking right at him.

And it was horrible.

"Yes, well. Actually, I fully intended to follow you once you had lured the traitor out, and-"

"You didn't even know who that was. He spent years tracking you down and he would have got you. He nearly _got_ you." D'Eath had been blown by exhaustion from anger through hysterics into the tundra of calm, and she sounded no more emotional than someone discussing the weather on a dull day.

"If -"

"You had me as bait for the crazy bastard who actually wanted to kill _you_. I don't think I'm going to speak with you again."

Lachance was also familiar with the phrase "if you look into the abyss, the abyss stares right back at you." In this case, the abyss had gotten a good look, then frowned in disgust and decided it'd rather watch stalagmites grow or wait for the next pebble to fall. A tiny crack appeared in Lucien's otherwise happily untarnished soul.

He was glad D'Eath saved him from looming introspection by saying something he could effectively retort.

"_I wonder what would happen if I talked with a guard."_

Aaah, yes.

"Well, I'd escape. _You_ would be taken to prison, and after a while the Count would come down to see you, you would discover we are extremely well-connected, and you'd be released into my care." Lucien lent back into his chair. He was glad they were back on familiar ground. He was glad they were in Skingrad, where Vicente knew the Count and D'Eath's threat posed no real threat. "Which brings me back to what the Night Mother said…"

Helena looked defeated. "Go on."

"The Night Mother was not entirely… pleased with us." Lucien couldn't recall the Night Mother's exact words: it felt like they had been poured right through his brain like scalding quicksilver, leaving only their meaning behind. And that meaning had been something like _"WELL? WHAT IS IT? OH, YOU AGAIN. EXCUSE ME A MOMENT, I AM BUSY WITH SOMETHING." _It was hardly what he or the others had expected. Uvani had been crushed, poor bastard.

"Did you get… scolded?" Helena grinned.

"In a way. Arquen got the worst of it, not surprisingly, but the Night Mother had something for each of us." He winced, recalling how the spectral woman had healed his wounds, then cupped his chin with a translucent hand like an elderly grandaunt, shook it and said something like _"OH, LUCIEN, YOU IDIOT. FORGET YOUR OWN HEAD NEXT, I THINK, HHRM?"_ He decided to leave this part out. "And for you, too."

"Wha-?"

"There is still the matter of your allegiance. While pleased by your contribution, the Night Mother feels we ought to make your position in the Brotherhood official."

"Wait. After all this horrid mess, I'm _still_ not in?"

"Do you remember what I told you when we met? The part about the signing of a covenant?"

The Breton shrugged, and finally consented to taking a sip of the Elsweyrian grog. It left her throat tasting of wet dog, but not in a bad way. _Huh_. "I just thought it was another of your tacky metaphors."

"It's not. You need to spill blood for the Brotherhood. And you need to do it now-" he raised a gloved hand, because he knew D'Eath was about to look around the inn and say "What, right now?". "Thankfully, J'Ghasta has slipped me a contract that's just what we need."

Helena shook her head. "No way. No-Godsdamn-way. I can't just… I mean, I've no idea how-" She waved her hands, then settled for "Besides, I need some leave."

"What?"

"Yeah. I need to do something. It's pretty urgent."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I forgot." Helena said, liberally translating "_I hoped that if I stopped thinking about it, it would go away, but it didn't."_ "Besides, it's not your bloody business!"

"Of course it is! I'm your superior, there is no such thing as 'leave' in the Brotherhood and if I say we're leaving for Chorrol in ten minutes, then that is what is going to happen!" Lucien hissed back.

"Oh. _Chorrol_." D'Eath dropped the snarl she had been wearing for a pleasantly surprised gawk. "Good. You're the boss, then." A glimpse of something that had escaped Lucien's defences when he had held eye contact for a fraction of a second too long chose this moment to catch up in Helena's brain.

"Because you _are_ the boss, aren't you?" Slow realization dawned beautifully on her face as she put together the various '_J'Ghasta that'_ and "_J'Ghasta said'_ that had slipped away.

"I mean, the High Elf is obviously screwed. It can't be that Dunmer, or you wouldn't be happy. And yet, and yet…" The septim finally dropped and Helena grinned.

"It's the Khajiit, isn't it? She picked the _Khajiit_! The Khajiit is your boss now!" As she watched Lachance maintain a carefully unperturbed face, Helena reached out and went for the sucker punch, which in this case was a light pat on the shoulder. "Oh, don't worry. I've been there too."

* * *

.: :.

There are many reasons for people to join a Daedric cult. The chance of obtaining cosmic-level magical powers. To reshape the world in their image. Some people are really just misunderstood, but they'll show everyone how much they're worth, oh yes! Others do it because there is nothing else to do on Friday nights and well, you meet interesting people and get cool robes.

For Ruma, it was a family thing.

And like many family things, all the fun had been scrupulously separated and disposed of before consuming.

"We're still searching for the Amulet, mistress."

Ruma regarded the squirming Ulen Athram in front of her with something that would have passed as ennui in certain Highrock poetic circles. In more mundane terms, it was a general chafing of the soul.

"The Amulet?"

"The Amulet of Kings! It wasn't- the Emperor didn't have it on his person after..." For someone who claimed to be part of an apocalyptic, chaos-worshipping cult, Athram sure seemed to have problems saying words like "murder" or "corpse", thought Ruma.

"Ah, yes. That." She waved a long, pale hand. The Amulet of Kings was useless. At least, it was now that the lineage of Alessia and the Dragonfires were both snuffed out. Still, it would have been nice to have it, if only to give Father and Raven something to focus their gloating on. "Keep searching."

The Dunmer nodded and exited Ruma's study, not before proclaiming the greater glory of Lord Dagon, Dest- uh, _Reorganizer_ of Worlds. Ruma nodded absentmindedly.

The Emperor was dead. His sons were dead. The Dragonfires were out. All the three topmost boxes in the Plan had been ticked. Yet, you can't go far in Daedric Studies without honing a fine sense for imminent danger, and right now Ruma's was howling blood. There was something wrong, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

.: :.

Bursting into a mage's room unannounced provides plenty of amusing party anecdotes… at least, it does for the room's owner. Blevin had always been remarkably resilient and over the years he had developed a good knack for divining when it was okay to interrupt Melisandre in her work or when it was better to fetch something heavy in case the arcane, the unnatural and the decidedly pissed off burst in the opposite direction. Today, however, he eased the door open with his good shoulder, stifled a yelp and barely avoided smudging the outline of a summoning circle. The whole floor was covered in chalk, now that he looked.

Well, that explained the curious case of Arnandre and the half-dozen clannfear on a leash at daybreak.

"Whaddoyouwant_?_ I'm busy here. The fabric of reality is responding _just as it should_."

"And that's bad?"

Melisandre pushed stacks of books, miscellaneous rocks and best-left-unknown body parts off the working table, instead setting down a silver bowl as if she had a grudge with it. Blevin waited for the usual biting retort, but nothing came.

"It is!" Melisandre fished for a snip of chalk in her robe and started scribbling on the table. "We should be knee-deep in Daedra by now, but the barrier with Oblivion is behaving as if Uriel didn't die at all!" The chalk snapped and Melisandre frowned at its betrayal.

"Uhm, I've got bad news too."

"What? What 'bad news'? Your ongoing failure to drag here D'Eath by the scruff of her neck has become a cherished part of my life, I assure you."

"Yes, about that…" Blevin didn't like to be reminded of his exploits, mostly because they weren't 'exploits' but an extensive collection of screw ups. The worst part was that the memories were always confused after the moons waned, and if he was going to listen to Melisandre recount his latest miss for a month, he would have much preferred to contribute to the discussion.

"I think I might… I think _she_ might. Got a stab at me, I mean. The shoulder."

Melisandre stared in mild disbelief. "After six months, D'Eath finally buys herself a knife. Wonderful. Waste of money, but at least she's starting to get the spirit of the thing."

"It hurts!"

"I'll see to it after I'm done with this scrying. I'm sure the Hound of Hircine can shrug it off until then, yes?"

Blevin fiddled with the lacing on his doublet until he pulled part of his shoulder out. The flesh had turned a nice shade of red with tinges of purple only previously dreamed by Bosmer shamans. "Does it look bad?"

* * *

.: :.

Chancellor Ocato was watching ants.

Except that he wasn't. Ocato frowned and mentally scolded himself for the poor metaphor. The hidden balcony simply wasn't high enough for it, and the shapes of the Councillors were still definite. Besides, ants were always busy with something useful and vital, while currently the last hope of the Empire were pretty busy waiting for The Other Shoe to Drop. It was not a big shoe, but heavy, and it was metaphorically roaming above their heads, looking for a victim.

"Sir?"

"Ten septim it's the Argonian Councillor", Ocato muttered. Evangeline, his secretary, nodded. It was a recurring joke in the Palace that the Chancellor never slept nor ate, carrying as he was all the burden of the Imperial rule. Bollocks, answered the senior clerks. _It's his secretary that's always vigilant._ "Sir, the Council await your presence. Today's agenda…"

Ocato grunted. "I know what it is."

Evangeline quietly ripped a sheet of parchment from her notebook and the 56th draft of the Agricultural Proposal disappeared from history. She passed to the next point.

"The Dunmer Councillor, the Breton Councillor, the Redguard Councillor-" Ocato stopped her with a gesture. "They will be pushing a council questioning over the current state of affairs. It will contain a half-hearted attempt at secession, just to warm themselves up."

"You've very good, sir."

The High Chancellor shrugged. Those three routinely tried to sneak such proposals into the Council works, and Ocato prided himself on thwarting at least six of their attempts before the morning break. Today's bid was just a warm-up, a stall for old times' sake. Doubtlessly, the three bastards were rubbing their hands in glee as they prepared to ask the fatal question: _"How do you call an Empire without an Emperor?"_

"What is the report from the University?" he asked. His secretary flipped her notebook expertly and retrieved the relevant news. "Archmage Traven says the routine tests on the barrier between Mundus and Oblivion are normal."

"What about the extraordinary ones?"

"Extraordinary, as usual."

Ocato paced on the balcony floor. "If only we still had that bloody thing…"

"The Imperial Guard is searching for the Amulet as we speak, sir. The Order of the Blades-"

"Hah!"

"- is leading in the search."

"_Hah_! Beanique, a note. Should the fabric of the world collapse in the near future, remind me to stoop to petty vengeance in my last moments and disband the Blades with my last breath."

"Will do, sir."

"It will _not_ do." Ocato mumbled. Leaning on the balcony, he could see the Dunmer Councillor wave at the Highrock emissary. "I need the Amulet of Kings. I have to give them _something_." The Amulet was the last resort, the Plan B: _" If all else fails, look at the Amulet for guidance",_ it was written. But _of course_, the loremasters never bothered to expand on exactly what sort of guidance could be expected from a piece of jewelry. Ocato had never forgiven the Amulet for not showing the least magical ability while under his close examination. But _of course_, it was the seal of the Covenant and only the Dragonborn could stir the godly power within.

The idea that the stupid rock could not discriminate between nearly a century of the strictest magical training and any sod who happened to be born into the right family kept Ocato awake at night.

"Sir? You're gritting your teeth again."

"I won't let the Blades manhandle the very foundations of the Empire again, Beanique."

"No, sir."

"We will lead our own investigation. Covertly, of course."

* * *

.: :.

"Ow!"

"I'm almost done."

"_Ow_!"

Melisandre had to admit her brother showed remarkable self control. If it had been her dealing with this sort of ''allergy' to silver, she would have cracked the glass panels all the way to the Temple with her choice swearing.

"There. I stopped the bleeding, but…" She examined the wound again. The gash in itself wasn't large, but the black tendrils seemed to have grown slightly longer since she had last looked at them. Whatever. Restoration wasn't her strong suit, but Melisandre was never the type to balk in front of magical challenges.

"It's probably poison. I'll try to identify it, but for now…" Melisandre redressed the wound and, in an uncharacteristic show of excitement, she patted her brother on the knee. He winced.

"Sorry about that. Look, do you know where I've just been? No, don't shrug, you'll make it worse. I've been to see one of my contacts at the University." Her face showed an amount of glee Blevin hadn't seen since Melisandre had mastered her first Destruction spell and set fire to their nanny's hairdo.

She took out a small vial full of dark, congealed blood.

"I think I have found us another lead to D'Eath."

* * *

.: :.

"Look", Lachance said, focusing on the bridge of his Silencer's nose. He had been avoiding looking D'Eath in the eye since the Two Sisters' Lodge incident, for no reasons he'd ever care to disclose. "You have to keep in mind that this contract is a jewel. A work of art. I know people who would leap at the chance of performing such a stroke of finesse in the Night Mother's name."

"Funny, because I distinctly remember you saying-" and here Helena took a deep breath in preparation "- _You're disastrous, you have no technique, you're an embarrassment to the fine art of killing and a liability to the Brotherhood as a whole!"_

"Yes." Lachance sighed. "We'll have to work on that."

"I'll only say: _a__près moi, le déluge__. _Which means, my fine murderous friend-" and here Helena met Lachance's vaguely amused stare- "that after such a height as the Emperor of Tamriel, I should probably just retire my career as a cutthroat. _Non plus ultra._ I'm sure you'll agree."

"If only you were half as good in murder as you are in misquoting. If only…"

D'Eath deigned not answer. Lucien went on. "The contract does not involve actual killing."

"But-"

"Francois Motierre, a failed merchant whose every step is haunted by debt collectors, requires our aid in making him… disappear." Lucien's mare whinnied what Helena had come to recognize as the "_Oh, I love your play-on-words, my evil master!"-_sort-of-whinny. "What better way to fake your death than having the Dark Brotherhood itself voice for your passing? And here's where _you_ come in. A gift from your Night Mother… "

He took out an elaborate dagger, with a blade as shiny and graceful as a moonbeam. The hilt was delicately embroidered with nightshade motifs. It looked like the sort of dagger that wouldn't stand to plunge in anything less than a grief-stricken princess's heart. Helena may not have known much, but she knew that if she had to go by stabbing, she'd chosen that little beauty.

"Careful", Lachance said, wrapping the blade back in its protective cloth and offering her the hilt. "I've bathed it in Languorwine. One prick, and you're dead, or as good as, until I revive you with the antidote." Lachance gave her a Look. "Which I might not feel inclined to do, if I catch you comatose because you cut your finger."

Helena nodded absentmindedly. "Looks like silver." she said aloud.

"Alchemically-cast. Only way to hold the poison long enough."

Pleasantly surprised at how her hand hadn't burst into boils, her fingers falling off and skin searing in pain, Helena pocketed the dagger into her saddlebag.

"This is the plan. You go to Motierre's house. He will be waiting in the hall. You need to wait for an Argonian, Hides-His-Heart. He's with the debt collectors. When he comes, jump out of wherever you're hiding, shout something about the Dark Brotherhood, and stab Motierre with the dagger. Then _run_."

"Ah, now _that_ I can do."

"They'll take Motierre's body to the chapel crypt, where I will revive him. The contract is closed, blood has been spilled, your irregularity is solved and I can start to think about replacing my Silencer for real."

"And I can make my last delivery!" D'Eath added cheerfully.

Whatever, Lucien thought. How anyone could willingly spend their life hauling things from point A to point B and back again was beyond him.

* * *

.: :.

_Deare Sirs, _

_I have been to the Master Motierre's House, except that upon Opening the Doore and shouting mine Usual Greetings (that is PAY YOUR DEBT IN BLOOD as is the Practice of my Profession and the Necessity of this Case), I happened upon the Strangest Circumstance. For Motierre stood not in Fear only of my Enforcing Prowess, nay, indeed he looked at me and cried Oh No An Enforcer and a Dark Brotherhood Assassin both here to kill poor François! At which a Black-Clad Figure did burst from the adjoining Room and though I most Fervently Protested my Rights as I had an Appointmente and was thus deserver to go About My Business First, Motierre said Cut Me Not with that Wicked Blade Assassin and the Black Figure slashed his Robe with a Knife, but nothing happened. So he Said: Cut Me Againe you Good-for-nothing-Wenche but then he did Fell Dead on the Floore, and the Assassin cried out Oh Sweet Mother I have Done it, I have nailed the Fat Bastard. At this I tried to Apprehend her, but she did swivel away Most Artfully and successfully Fled the Scene. _

_I humbly offer mine Deepest Apologies for having failed in the Agreed Task. Please find Inclosed the Jars which you had Sent for the Collecting of Motierre's Blood. I hope your Restorative Potions and Ointments shall not suffer too drearily for the Shortage of such a Vital Resource which was Rightfully Promised and Purchased but fell short of Actual Deliverance. _

_Yours Faithfull, _

Hides-His-Heart sighed as he laboriously traced his signature on the paper. You truly saw every damn thing in the book, in the debt-collecting business.

* * *

.: :.

Helena had been pacing for a while, then realized pacing looked suspicious, so now she sat still. Well, except for her left foot. Finally, as dusk started to fade away and night reached the backyard of the Grey Mare Inn, she spotted Lachance's arrival.

"Took your bloody time," she said. "You should have been there! I swear, this huge Argonian…" Lachance dropped himself next to her on the bench, leaving room for a third seat which remained conspicuously empty of any Motierres.

"Say, shouldn't he be with you?"

"Nah." Lachance swept some damp hair from his forehead. "The Brotherhood must always claim a life."

"Wasn't the whole point-"

He shushed her. "Motierre knew this. That's why, when he made the contract, he directed me to his lady mother's home. Quite a nice old lady." The guy had also made a point of mentioning how the crazy old bint always left the back door open for cats and napped through the afternoon.

Helena went white. "Oh no. You didn't. You just didn't…"

Lachance giggled and Helena's discomfort increased. Lachance simply wasn't the giggling sort. Now cackling, yes, that she could deal with.

"Madame Motierre has given me twice her son's offer to leave him locked in."

"That's horrible!" said Helena, or at least, that would have been all she said had the events of the day not left her mark on her nerves, soul and already small ability to restrain from black irony. "It's also hilarious." She sniffed back a giggle. "So he's in the crypt, now? Doing some hard thinking on the downturns of life, a mother's love, and insurance fraud, I expect."

Lachance nodded.

"They'll hear him banging on the door by morning. He'll piss his breeches. Teaches him well for sending us after his mom, eh? I'd leave everything to the cats, if I were her." She sniffed again. "What's this smell of sweat from?"

"Stables," Lucien shrugged. D'Eath was looking faintly pleased with just a hint of smug. It would not do to ruin her night with unnecessary details. Like how the Motierre family had seen fit to purchase an eternal place of rest that came with optional such as wards against profanation.

Lucien did not believe in many things, at least not with the burning intensity managed only by children under the age of six and the woman writing those insane city guidebooks. If there was one thing upon which he anchored his soul, however, was that dead people should stay dead.

The old hag could have spared three seconds to warn him about the zombies, it was simply good manners.

At least the lock on the door had looked solid enough when he had worked it with fingers that had lost their habitual elegance. It had took him three tries to get the key to turn. Motierre's frantic banging on the door had complicated matters.

* * *

.: :.

"Okay, give me some space here. Good. Watch this."

D'Eath readjusted her worn-out doublet and combed a few strands of errant hair back into submission with her fingers, then she hopped off the horse and retrieved a bulky package from the saddlebag. Lucien watched her make her way through the small courtyard and knock on the abbey door. A few moments later, he could see light spilling through the crack as the guardian monk answered. He did not need to see her face to know D'Eath was smiling with all her teeth and meaning it, too.

D'Eath chirped the receiver's name and thrust the package into the hands of the monk with a gentleness that would have made Havilstein Hoar-Blood proud. The monk's eyes went from the package, to D'Eath, to the package again, then back to D'Eath.

Then he screamed.

"Master Jauffre! _Master_ _Jauffre_! "

D'Eath twirled in place like a well-honed Dwemer doll, but all that working and praying had gifted the monk with shovel-sized hands, and they clasped her shoulder with the inevitability of Julianos's judgement. D'Eath's scream was muffled by the heavy door as it closed and in the space of a few seconds the courtyard was back to the picture of peaceful stillness it had been when the two assassins had first arrived.

Whelp, thought Lucien.

What he should do was make his way to the back of the building and scout an hidden entrance to the abbey. He could wait a couple of hours until all the monks had gone to sleep, then break in, incapacitate those on watch duty – not killing them would have been a mark of finesse; after all, the Brotherhood is never seen if it does not want to- find D'Eath, and then break her out.

He went through the plan until step four, when he slipped through the hatch on a wayward closet's roof and found himself staring at a rusty shield hanging on a wall, pale moonlight washing over the faded, but still beautiful Akaviri markings, and the centrepiece engraving showing the crossed-swords-and-crown of the Imperial Blades. At this point, Lucien considered that even Vicente couldn't have argued he hadn't made an effort, and did someone really expect him to break into a den full of Blades? Nope, thought Lucien: he would regretfully inform all the Sanctuary members of the importance of damage control. Sadly enough, the Brotherhood could afford to lose D'Eath, especially if it meant not losing _him_. Clearly, the best possible course of action was to leave D'Eath in her current predicament.

So he did.

* * *

.: :.

Helena gulped down and her parched throat made an ugly gawk! noise. Still, that got Jauffre's attention.

"I just want to say that I didn't kill the Emperor," she said.

Jauffre slashed the newspaper wrapping with a miniature version of the Akaviri katana hanging behind him on the wall of the study, which had been featuring heavily in Helena's thoughts for the last few minutes. The Amulet of Kings dropped on the desk with a soft thud in which she couldn't help imagining a trace of smugness.

"We know that," the Grandmaester of the Blades said, after considering the jewel for a lengthy pause.

"Great. So, now that you have the thing, can I…"

"Brother Baurus gave us your description, but we couldn't find you anywhere. Moreover, we couldn't find the Amulet anywhere."

Helena gulped again. "The Emperor said to give it to the Grandmaster of the Blades, then I could go."

"Did he really say that?"

One glance at the Akaviri katana told Helena that she could afford precious little liberties with the script of this story. "Well, he said he had seen me in his dreams, and that there was always hope, and that I had to take the thing to you, and that his part was done, and his last son was his Champion." By this part her voice had reduced to a meagre creaking.

"I see. And why would the Emperor give _you_ the Amulet of Kings?"

"I swear I don't know. I don't know. I – " Truth to be told, she had tried to get rid of the thing a couple of times, usually when Lachance was facing the other way and they were passing close enough to the Rumare. But it simply wouldn't do. She didn't know if it was the indubitably awesome magic powers the bloody thing possessed, or her sense of civic duty again. It wouldn't even tie around her neck and she was forced to hide it with her socks. At last, she had resolved to drop it to Weynon Priory, and hope it would be satisfied.

"Do you know what it does?" Jauffre did not wait for an answer. "It seals the pact between the Septim lineage and our father Akatosh. It prevents the planes of Oblivion from spilling into our own reality and destroying all life."

"… He did say something about the jaws of Oblivion."

"And that is why it is the most important piece of the Imperial Treasury. Now that you know this, have you got any further explanations on where did you wander for five days, risking to rip a hole in our plane of existence?" Jauffre didn't wait for her to answer, again. She hoped this would be a regular feature in their conversations concerning her whereabouts or associations. He sighed, and looked very tired.

"I have spent that time trying to hold the Empire together." Helena nodded, wishing to show that she was all for holding the Empire together. "And reading about you."

"Ah."

"I honestly do not care that you were in prison. What I do care about, however, is the reign of our Emperor. It is my duty and honour to preserve and protect the Emperor with my work and my life and, right now, this means keeping the peace for as long as possible." Jauffre looked straight at her. "We have failed, but we shall not fail again."

Helena nodded again.

"I don't know what the Emperor saw in you. Akatosh knows I don't share our late Emperor's blessed insight… But there's one thing I can tell you. If you don't work with me, the jaws of Oblivion will be nothing comparing to the rest of your existence."

"If that thing really works as you said, that's not going to be long, isn't it?"

Jauffre ignored her last comment. Helena couldn't decide whether she should be offended or not. "I have few men, too much ground to cover, and I can't trust most of them anymore; but the Emperor trusted you, and you stayed off the map long enough to dodge our enemies and deliver me the Amulet, Gods know how. I have a proposal for you. Deliver me my rightful Emperor."

"… or else?"

"Do I really _need_ an 'else'?"

.: :.

* * *

_'sup bros. Nearly five months, eh? That's not too bad by my usual standards. ilu 3 See you hopefully sooner than later. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Wawnet Inn, Crossroads_

It was a gloomy sort of day. The atmosphere was loaded with humidity, almost as if the weather itself couldn't be bothered to go all the way to rain yet, and it hung heavily over the inn like a lead shroud.

Or a conscience, thought Lachance, before remembering himself and smothering the irreverent little idea with another sip of Cyrodilic brandy. The innkeeper had fished it out of a cupboard at his specific request and made a point of being seen blowing the dust off the bottle. It was the worst thing he had ever drunk outside of the Bruma sanctuary – where Havilsten Hoar-blood sat unchallenged as the uncrowned king of apprentice brewers **(1)** – and so he drank it both as an exercise in liquors and as a measure of practical punishment.

The second measure of punishment was currently sitting next to him.

"I swear on Sithis, it took a Speaker to get Nerussa to get the good stuff out," Rowley said. "Twenty years I've sat the steps in this Voidforsaken place, and the witch never got me anything stronger than lake water. Always with that Shadowbanish of hers. Now _that_ might be alright for some, but I just cannot sustain a healthy murder habit on it!"

The hierarchy inside the Brotherhood, between the opposing poles of the Black Hand and the rank-and-file, could be peculiarly fluid. Rowley's peculiar position was the result of the former Black Hand taking notice of his _peculiar_ knack of being the last surviving member of any Sanctuary he took shelter in. This wasn't unheard of in the Brotherhood: it was getting harder and harder to recruit replacements, and casualties were common enough even when no one decided to, as J'Ghasta had began to put it, _pull a Mathieu_ on their Dark Siblings. So, the first time, the Black Hand simply assigned Rowley to the welcoming embrace of another Sanctuary and were done with it.

This they did two more times.

When the Dune Sanctuary was wiped out by a freak flood, the Hand decided to take action, making sure Rowley stayed as distant from any active Sanctuaries as it was geographically possible. Thus, he had been appointed Head of the Wawnet Sanctuary, currently consisting of himself and the inn's cat, and had spent some years acting as a liaison between the Cyrodiil Sanctuaries, lending a hand to Brotherhood members passing through, and enthusiastically waiting his first acolytes who, the Black Hand assured, were due to be incoming any day **(2)**.

"No, indeed." Lucien said. Drinking with Rowley was good in the sense that it was like drinking alone, but without the immediate repercussions of being _that one gloomy hooded sod suspiciously drinking alone in the corner, Imperial Officer sir. _

Lucien had not slept well, at all. Now that the excitement and the adrenaline were over, he had started to realise that he had been so very close to having his life rearranged like a home left in the care of psychotic Altmer decorators. Hadn't it been for his improvised plan, for J'ghasta and D'Eath's help, and for a substantial dose of his eponymous luck, he could have very well been ended up like Rowley. Or dead. Dead should have been worse, but the idea of life without the twins, Telaendril, _Vicente_ – each time he thought about that, a cold chill settled into his bones.

There was another matter. Ever since that breakfast with D'Eath in Skingrad he hadn't been feeling like his old self. He found himself thinking about what other people felt whenever he made use of them in his machinations. This had never happened to him before; the strain turned over some barely-used emotional muscles and he didn't like it. Say, what would _he_ be doing, in D'Eath's place and situation?

The answer came to him immediately: he would be awaiting rescue. J'Ghasta would break him out. Vicente would break him out. Hell, Gogron would definitely break something – femurs, for instance.

An annoying voice in the back of his head insisted that D'Eath, who didn't even know him that much and didn't possess one tenth of the worth he had to the Brotherhood, hadn't hesitated to come to his aid when Uvani and Arquen were discussing his disembowelment. Sure, her attempt had sucked, but it had _existed_. And now he, who was by all accounts – at least, all those immediately available in his head – the best assassin the Brotherhood had to offer, was making his merry way back to Cheydinhal while D'Eath –one of his charges, now officially a Dark Sister and Silencer- was held captive.

This sort of unpleasant train of thought was all D'Eath's fault. And the worst part was, he couldn't even berate her on it, because she wasn't there, and that was obviously _part of the problem_.

There was no alternative, Lucien thought. He was going to go back and get D'Eath. Once the recovery mission was over, he could enjoy the ride to Cheydinhal, made all the more pleasant by the opportunity to exact revenge upon D'Eath for inflicting upon him some fifteen years of backlog emotional toil.

He could almost taste the verbal barbs.

He had rose from his chair when the door of the inn opened and D'Eath came in.

* * *

Helena had read somewhere that moments like this had to be "savoured like a fine wine", so savouring it she was. Not even Nerussa in her wildest _sommelier_ dreams could achieve such savouring.

"So," she started. "Fancy seeing you here! Do you visit often? You sort of look familiar…"

Lachance said nothing. How like the egotistical bastard to deprive her of all the fun, when she finally had the moral higher ground. "Visit often?", she tried again. She took up a spare glass and poured some brandy.

"Oh for Sithis's sak-What happened? What was that thing you had? And most importantly_, how did you get out_?"

"Why, same way I got in." Helena said, flourishing a grin. "By the front door."

Lachance slapped his hand on his mouth, biting the palm of his leather glove and then covering his eyes for a second, then regaining enough control to say "Tell me everything that happened in that priory at once or so help me the gods, I will _go spare_", thus making Rowley subtly tense in his chair and immediately regret the illustrious visit.

Helena sighed. "Well, it turns the recipient was, uh, highly worried about his package, so he was understandably relieved by my arrival. So much relieved, in fact, that he insisted upon my staying at dinner and then some."

Lucien made an impatient gesture. "Spare me the vagueness. I actually _tried_ to come in after you, you know? I saw the arms. That place is a Blade outpost. This got anything to do with your break-out?"

"Not just _any_ outpost." Helena winced. "I spoke with the Grandmaster," she admitted. Lachance was starting to turn a very inauspicious shade of grey, so she decided to just come out with it. "That thing I had in my backpack, it was the Amulet of Kings. The Emperor gave it to me, but I swear I didn't know it would be the Blades, he just sai-"

At this point, Rowley's glass loudly fell on the floor, metaphorically signifying the span of his jaw, at which Lachance ordered him to his rooms with no more than a glance.

"Right," he said. "Then what?"

Helena fidgeted in her seat. "Well, the mighty arm of the Empire will root me out from any vile lair I shall take refuge in, you know how it goes. Unless…" She paused to check Lachance's reactions, but he remained blank. "Unless…I go to Kvatch to do a thing for them."

"Do what?"

Helena shrugged. "It's not important, it's pretty simple. I just need to tell someone they're expected at Weynon Priory to enjoy the warm hospitality of the monks. Then I'm free to go." She passed her finger on the rim of the glass. "I've actually hitched passage with a group of Dibella pilgrims, but I'm sure we could ditch them somewhere off-"

"_We_? "We could"? What _we_? I refuse to take part in this insanity. I've been through enough." Lachance was putting all of himself in the effort of conducting an angry reproach at whisper-level, and the results were impressive. You could tell he did it all the time, Helena thought. "Sithis himself must know why you're here, because I sure don't. I had my doubts before, but now I cannot honestly _comprehend_ the reason they made me recruit you. It _boggles my mind_. Phillida, the Emperor, and then the Blades? What's next, the Elder Council itself? Your involvements are a walking liability to the whole Brotherhood!" Lachance paused for breath, barely taking notice that Helena had been holding empty air instead of a glass for the past two minutes. "My responsibilities lie with the Sanctuary. I cannot put its members at risk because-"

"Because of what?" It looked like D'Eath had reached her standing ground. "It wasn't me the one that nearly got everyone killed because of _slipping up on the job_ some ten years ago, was it? It wasn't me that Bellamont was looking for!" she angrily retailed. "Which is funny, because it seems it was me you sent to spend some choice time with the psychopath! _You didn't even meet him_! You didn't even _know_!"

Lachance said nothing.

"I'm going to Kvatch. Good day." Then, Helena got up and left.

* * *

_Talos Plaza, Imperial City_

"Is this necessary, sir?"

"Civello, I am your superior officer. By virtue of this very fact, anything you see me do is justified and necessary."

"Only, sir, I think this technically counts as breaking and entering, and since I'm a Guard I think-"

"You're thinking too much. Only think when I tell you to. Is it midnight yet?"

"Should be, any moment now, sir."

Adamus Phillida, retired Commander of the Imperial Legion, was standing in the dark of an alley a few steps from the door of a house. Civello's keen Guard senses were already tingling at the sheer criminality of it all.

"Sir, if I may ask, why midnight?"

Phillida smiled. "When else to contact the Night Mother? You have to think theatrically when dealing with the Brotherhood, Civello. They _relish_ the stuff, and they use it to their advantage. What would you do if you were suddenly confronted by a black-clad masked idiot screaming _Sithis wants your soul_?"

Civello didn't have to think too much about it. "Arrest them, sir. Unauthorized weapon, threat, and disturbance of the Emperor's peace, _mayAkatoshresthissoul_."

"You might very well make it to my age, lad," the Commander conceded. "But most folks would just about shit their pants. Thus, the assassin has an easier job." The moonlight was reminding Phillida of his younger days in the Legion, and the chase, and his first brushes with the Brotherhood. It was quite sentimental. "Now me, I _know_ they want it. So in the time they take to utter their nonsense, I'm already on my guard."

"How many assassins did you kill, sir?"

"Four. A record, I believe, although I consider it a loss that they all died in the attempt. There's nothing I wouldn't give for a living Dark Brother to question."

Civello nodded. Suddenly, the air resonated with the heavy tolls of the Temple District bells.

"It's time", Phillida said.

They moved out.

* * *

_Claudius Arcadia's basement, Talos Plaza, Imperial City._

Claudius had trying crouching, then kneeling – he felt it was possibly the most beneficial position for the look of the thing – but then his joints had protested too much for him to do anything else than sit on his butt on the cold basement floor. And so he did, although he did keep a care to stay out of the chalk and most importantly, the blood.

He was feeling most disconcerted, but not for the reasons anyone might have thought upon seeing him laying next to a makeshift image of a human corpse made out of pig parts and various scribblings with the childhood relics of his daughter's crayons. That was just the Black Sacrament, the very thing he had set out to do. And had been doing for the past three nights.

Maybe it was the pig's heart, Claudius thought. Sure, by all the accounts he had been able to collect and by everything he could divine from the white noise of his assorted background knowledge, the Dark Brotherhood wanted a real human heart. But how on Nirn was he supposed to get one without raising suspicion? By murdering someone? That was _the whole point_! Besides, the man he had in mind was better suited to a pig's heart.

Discomforted, he stared at the chalk outline he had drawn around the heart: he couldn't see the need for any modifications and he couldn't think of any improvements on the design. He rearranged the nightshade flowers – by far the most difficult ingredient to collect: they had cost him a good row with the hellish Mrs. Maccarius when he had plucked them from her garden – before realizing he was making a sort of flower crown for the "corpse", at which he stopped.

What if the ritual had to be repeated a certain number of times? he thought. Well, three's the charm, they said, so tonight he was bound to see something. Unless the Brotherhood had another number. He seemed to recall seven being a favourite of the wizards – certainly it couldn't be Nine, that would have been sacrilegious. Unless that was the intent? Either way, the heart was starting to go, so it better work, and soon.

Maybe they were just busy. Go figure…

There was a noise from upstairs and Claudius perked up. It sounded like someone had knocked over the expensive embalmed Daedroth foot he used as an umbrella stand. His dear Alessia had loathed the thing, but now that she was gone he couldn't bear himself to get rid of it.

The basement door creaked open. Claudius braced himself: the moment had finally come. He couldn't afford any mistakes: he needed to be as clear-minded and cold-blooded as when he had decided to make use of the Dark Brotherhood's service, as he had been when hunting down the components for the ritual. He owed it to his daughter. He closed his eyes.

"Claudius Arcadia?" said a rough, gruff voice.

"Yes…?" He dared to pry open an eyelid.

"I'm Commander Adamus Phillida of the Imperial Legion. You're under arrest for performing a ritual meant to contact the criminal organisation known as the Dark Brotherhood."

Phillida would have remembered the next few seconds for the rest of his career. Arcadia staggered up, right into Civello's steely grasp, but not before looking at him with eyes wide in shock and gulping out. "T-they didn't even come! It didn't work! _Why didn't it work?" _

* * *

_Talos Plaza, Imperial District_

There was always a lot of dillydallying going on in Talos Plaza; indeed, one could argue that Talos Plaza was all about being seen artflly dillydallying in one of the social and political hotbeds of the Empire. In the midst of all this artful coming and going, swishing of robes and clicking of boots, greetings and introductions carefully administered or withdrawn, the robed figure sitting on the bench could have effectively passed as part of the scenery: an addendum to the dragon statue that roared behind.

Unless, of course, one is expected. Vicente Valtieri, heavily cloaked in accordance with the morning sun, spotted his protégé as he passed under one of the archways, and gave as cheery a wave as any grandfather could hope for. "Hey Lulu! This way!" Lachance crossed the square and sat next to the vampire.

"You know I hate-"

"Oh, Lucien, don't pull that face. When you get to three hundred and forty-five, you, too, shall know that anyone is just an embarrassing nickname waiting to be used."

"I don't object to _that_. Just remind me again to skin J'Ghasta for coming up with it in the first place…"

"I'm afraid that is outside the realm of possibilities. I got your note. Fortuitous timing, isn't it?"

"'Fortuitous timing' might just be the phrase to describe the whole affair. I'm still not entirely sure how we managed to get out of that mudcrab pit with everyone's hide intact. Especially _mine_."

"I was referring more to our coincidental presence in the City, but if it that's how you start explaining things…Good thing I can't grow any more grey hairs."

Lucien gave Vicente an abridged, but exhaustive account of the latest developments with the Black Hand, from the arrival in Anvil to the meeting with the Night Mother, and J'Ghasta's new position as Listener.

"By Sithis," said Vicente at last. "I remember Bellamont's visits to the Sanctuary. I would have never imagined… To hold a grudge for so long, with that level of determination…As a fellow Breton, I'm impressed. As a Dark Brother, well…"

"He was picking off my Silencers so that the Black Hand would call for an emergency meeting. On his way to Anvil, he stopped by to eliminate Ungolim." Lucien held the bridge of his nose between index and thumb. "Arquen and Uvani were about to do me in as an additional favour. All he had left to do was take them both out, and I think he could have managed it. He was Arquen's Silencer, so…"

"The fearsome Dark Brotherhood, taken out by a deadly combination of revenge, idiocy and downright _shit luck_, if you'll pardon my Breton. Bellamont taking out _J'Ghasta_? On the road? What did the kitten do to piss off Nocturnal _this much_? Desecrate her temple?"

Lucien waved it off. "And it doesn't stop here. From the beginning, Uvani was dead set on summoning the Night Mother: if they had taken Bellamont along, then…"

"Well, good thing it didn't come to that." Vicente slapped his gloved hand on Lachance's shoulder. "Cheer up! We're not dead! Or at least, _you_ are. I'm feeling a bit under the weather… "

Lucien's face said it all he thought about vampire jokes at this time.

"Oh, come on. Think of Phillida's face if he knew what he has missed…"

That almost worked. "Anyway. What are you doing out of the crypt?"

"Aaah, chaperon duty. Now that I think of it, it's the last contract poor Ungolim had the chance to send us. Altmer, named Faelian. Habitually resides -" Vicente pointed at the Talos Plaza Hotel. "Over there."

"Ah, yes, I remember it now. Who's out accounting?"

"Teeinawa. He's on observation right now."

Lucien stared at the assorted crates and furniture that littered the walkway next to the hotel entrance; it seemed it was clean out day for the staff. "I can't say I see him."

"Exactly. His best impression of a barrel yet. A work of art, clearly showing the tutelage of an unparalleled master of stealth and deception." Vicente swept some non-existent dust off his left shoulder. "But enough about myself. What about your charming assistant? I can't see her either. Out on the _prowl_, hmmm?"

"Ah, yes. Well. You might say…we had a disagreement on the long term perspectives of her contribution to the organisation as a whole. I'd say our prospects were largely incompatible. Currently, for example, she's facing Kvatch."

"Lucien. You can't hide behind your vocabulary with me, I'm not Gogron. Out with it."

Lucien went out with it.

* * *

_Waterfront District, Imperial City_

Several hours and a dead Altmer later, Vicente and Teinaawa celebrated a job well done over a pint of Argonian ale, in a corner of the Bloated Float.

"To nobility," said Teinaawa. "May they always have more skooma than sense."

"To the family," answered Vicente more seriously. "May we always have each other."

They clinked tankards.

"So, what about Lucien's visit?" the Argonian asked. The Speaker had already left when he had returned from the contract.

"Indeed. Exciting news. We can be the first to rush home and congratulate ourselves with Speaker Ocheeva, of the Bruma Sanctuary."

It could be hard for the uninitiated to distinguish emotion on Argonian faces, but Teinaawa's was certainly pleasantly surprised. "Wow! It's wonderful! But then…Who we will be Mistress of Cheydinhal?" The mental shifting on the Cheydinhal roster lasted a couple of seconds. "…Antoniette?" he added with a certain nervous anticipation.

"In the immortal words of Lucien himself, "not until I move to Solstheim." Vicente grinned. "Joking aside, Lucien and I both think Antoniette still needs some experience on the field before moving up. Which is why I'll be forced to come out of retirement, at least for a little while." He set down his tankard dramatically; the ale inside was untouched. "The Brotherhood calls, and once again the bottomless pits of my experience are at the disposal of you young people."

Teinaawa flashed the sort of grin that was unnerving to all those that weren't familiar with the set of sharp teeth it showed. "I'm sure we can still get something out of your cranky old bones."

"Hhmph!"

"So, when will be Lucien and Sister D'Eath coming home?" Teinaawa asked. "I trusted that, ah, special assignment went well…"

"It did. But some… circumstances came up, and D'Eath is still so frightfully _new_ to the ways of the family. I had to remind Lucien of the obligations we owe each other, when we join…And some he owes, himself."

Teinaawa's face went in the careful, nonchalant stillness of someone who knows they might be overhearing a particular confidence about a superior which must never, ever be mentioned in said superior's face, lest that someone wants their face rearranged, so they were going to forget it as soon as it had been uttered, sir, thankyou sir (such an attitude was a valuable skill not only in the Brotherhood, but in any hierarchy). Besides, he, and the rest of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, genuinely cared for and respected Lucien… which meant that any shred of gossip about the carefully-staged, tightly-wrapped mystery of their Speaker was more precious than Ayleid stones.

Since Vicente appeared to be on a sentimental bent, Teinaawa decided to push his luck. "It's about the murders, isn't it?"

"Mmmh. Yes and no. I gather the stories leaked?"

"Two murders in the inner circle? Of course they leaked." The junior assassin smiled in excitement. "So, what has been going on?"

"Far from me to deprive you and your siblings of the precious lesson that lies here. I'm sure you will all enjoy piecing it together from the grapevine in the next few weeks…" Vicente stopped the protest he saw budding on Teinaawa's lips. "No, it's better discussed at home. Do you want my ale?"

The Argonian considered this a satisfactory temporary settlement. "Sure. Pass here."

It was when they were making their way through the Waterfront that Vicente spoke again. "Listen, did Lucien ever mention his first contract?"

"Was it the one about the Earl's daughter's betrothed? I love that one. Did he really get stuck in the window?"

"No, that was J'Ghasta, but he always tells it the other way… No, I'm thinking about something in High Rock. Ring any bells?"

Teinaawa thought for a minute. "Oh, the one with that beheading! I know which one. Once we managed to get him drunk enough to demonstrate the technique on a melon. It was great!" Teinaawa make a chopping motion. "_Swoosh_! Just like that, he said."

"Indeed. Do you remember the mark's name?"

Teinaawa shrugged. "He never said. Or maybe I forgot. Sorry."

"Was it anything like _Bellamont_, by chance?"

"I don't think so. No, it was definitely something different."

But of course, Vicente thought. We would have used her maiden name.

* * *

_Three days later, somewhere on the Gold Road, nearing Kvatch_

"…and that's how I ended up in Dibella's service."

"Wow," said Helena. "That's…not something I get to hear every day. Definitely."

Trevaia smirked. "I know. Yourself, though? Any interesting stories to share?"

"Only been in Cyrodiil for the past three months, got off the ship from High Rock. Fresh start, independence, making my way up, carving my niche in the Imperial Province, you know how it goes."

"Ooooh. _Fresh meat_." said Trevaia. "How has it been going so far?"

"I can honestly say things could definitely be worse. It's just that I'm having some trouble figuring out exactly how …" Helena thought for a moment. "No, nothing comes up."

Trevaia laughed. "That's the spirit!"

Unchallenged by virtue of his size, his axe, and the fact that prospective assailants generally had trouble standing up after tasting his work.

The Black Hand had of course considered arranging an accidental accounting, but that course of action had been stopped by a sudden revelation: what, had said one Speaker, if it were possible to harness Rowley's power for _good_? Thus a plan was hatched, to infiltrate Rowley into the Imperial Legion and see if he could work his magic on the Empire's Finest. The proceedings were halted by a sudden reshuffling of positions inside the Hand and Rowley's case had been slotted into the back rows, then forgotten.

* * *

**1) ** Unchallenged by virtue of his size, his axe, and the fact that prospective assailants generally had trouble standing up after tasting his work.

**2) ** The Black Hand had of course considered arranging an accidental accounting, but that course of action had been stopped by a sudden revelation: what, had said one Speaker, if it were possible to harness Rowley's power for _good_? Thus a plan was hatched, to infiltrate Rowley into the Imperial Legion and see if he could work his magic on the Empire's Finest. The proceedings were halted by a sudden reshuffling of positions inside the Hand and Rowley's case had been slotted into the back rows, then forgotten.

* * *

_hello :D_


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